Page 120 of Finding Storm

Stevie and I are out in town, getting ice cream together. We just went to the cinema, and when we got out, she had a craving for peanut butter cup, so here we are.

We’ve been going out more together over this last week on dates, for dinner, picnic in the park. We’ve even been out on her dad’s boat again.

It’s crazy to think I’ve been here almost two weeks. It feels like longer, but it’s still not enough time either.

But then all the time in the world still wouldn’t be enough with Stevie.

I have been getting more relaxed around here, not worrying so much about getting recognized. And if anyone has figured out who I am, no one seems to care.

I like this town. I’d like it even if Stevie wasn’t here.

But I like it even more because she is.

Ariana Grande is playing in the background—“God Is a Woman.” And I’m thinking she might be right because Stevie is pretty fucking heavenly.

And … the cheese just keeps coming.

I swear, if Stevie heard half the shit I thought about her, she would piss herself, laughing.

I’m smiling at the thought while watching her lick the ice cream off her spoon, wondering how soon I can get her home and get my tongue on her, when my cells starts to ring.

Getting it from my jacket pocket, I see that it’s Zane calling.

Something heavier than rocks drop into my stomach.

There’s only one reason he’d be calling, and it’s not for a chat.

“I gotta take this,” I tell her, standing from my seat. I press a kiss to the top of her head. Walking out of the ice cream parlor, I answer the phone as I go, “Zane.”

“So, you do know how to use your fucking phone.”

I let out a breath, readying myself for this conversation. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been taking some time off.”

“Yeah, I know. You done?”

“I don’t know …”

He laughs without a shred of humor. “That was me giving you the chance to say the right thing. You didn’t. So, now, I’m fucking telling you that you’re done. You’re gonna get your ass back here and get this album written, or I’m bringing in songwriters, and you’ll be playing someone else’s music for the foreseeable future.”

“But—”

“Shut the fuck up, Storm. There’re no buts. You come back to LA and get in the studio, or you can kiss good-bye to any artistic control over the songs that go on the album.”

“Jesus, Zane. Come on. The date we’re supposed to start recording isn’t until—”

“A month’s time.”

Shit, is it?

Pulling the phone from my ear, I glance at the date on my phone.

Fuck, he’s right.

I put my cell back to my ear. “Look … you don’t need to bring anyone else in. I’ve been writing while I’ve been here. It’s good stuff. Really good. You’ll like it.”

“You’d better fucking hope I do. Bring the songs into the studio with you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I almost fall over in shock. “Zane, I can’t—”