Page 45 of Finding Storm

I risk a look at him. He’s watching me with those intense eyes of his. Then, that deep voice of his says, “That’s exactly what it’s about.”

I gulp. Then, I force my shoulder back and fake confidence. “See, I told you it had meaning,” I toss the words at him. Flick on the indicator, check the road, and pull out onto the street.

Whitney Houston follows The B-52s, and I give an excited little squeal, my embarrassment quickly fading. I’m not one to dwell. Especially when a diamond like this is playing. I flipping love this song!

I hear a groan come from beside me.

I slide my eyes to him. “Aw, come on, don’t tell me you don’t like Whitney?”

A curl of his upper lip and a shrug. “She was okay, I guess.”

Okay. He guesses?

Sweet Lawd.

Come on, who doesn’t “Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)”?

Apparently, this dude.

The rate he’s dropping hot points, he’ll have none left. Which is probably a good thing for me.

“Do you want me to change the station or turn it off?” I reach for the dial.

“No. It’s okay.”

I catch his eyes. He gives me a soft smile. I feel this odd flutter in my stomach. Probably indigestion.

It hits me then that I still haven’t gotten his name.

I gave Beck shit for not getting his name, and I still haven’t gotten it either.

I take a right turn off Main Street, heading in the direction of Dad’s garage. “So, I probably should have introduced myself before now.” Before I lectured you about the effects of smoking on marine life and your terrible music choices in life. I laugh. It sounds as awkward as I am. “I’m Stevie Cavalli. My dad owns the garage that I’m taking you to.”

He doesn’t say anything. I take my eyes off the road for a moment to look at him.

He’s looking at me. But not at me. Like he’s somewhere else in his mind.

“Um … usually, at this point, you would tell me your name. I do kind of need it for the paperwork back at the garage.” Well, my dad does.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s … Nick.”

Then, I register his name together with mine, and I laugh.

“What’s funny?” He sounds actually defensive. It surprises me.

I flicker a look at him. His brow is furrowed. Jaw tight.

Huh.

“Stevie.” I point at myself. “Nick.” I use the same finger to point at him.

He’s staring at me in that you’re an alien that’s just landed way.

“Stevie Nicks. Fleetwood Mac. You’ve heard of her, right?”

If he hasn’t, he’ll lose another hotness point.

I flick my eyes his way again.