Page 39 of Finding Storm

Dad’s a big Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks fan. It’s where my name came from. Dad chose my name. Apparently, Mom picked Beck’s name—not that she stuck around long enough to tell us that.

Beck’s just lucky Dad didn’t get to name him, or he could have ended up being called Mick … or even better, Lindsey.

Man, I would’ve loved if he’d been called Lindsey. I would have tortured him for his entire existence with a name like that.

Chuckling to myself, I pull the truck off the garage forecourt and drive in the direction of Main Street to go collect the mystery man waiting to be towed.

Driving down Main Street, I keep my eyes peeled for a Maserati.

I spot it halfway down by the small stretch of industrial space.

He wasn’t kidding when he told Beck I’d easily spot it. It’s not a car you could miss. I’m not a gearhead, but I’ve been around enough cars in my life to know that’s a shit-hot car. A Maserati GranTurismo.

A couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth of a car.

Matte black with a gold “go-faster” stripe, as my dad calls them, running over the trunk, roof, and hood of the car.

I spot a tall dude leaning up against the hood, faced away from me.

Flicking on my blinker, I pull the tow truck up in front of the Maserati.

Turning off the engine, I open the door, jump out of the truck, and head over to the guy.

Lifting his ass off the hood, he straightens up, and—

Well.

Oh.

Wow.

He’s tall. A lot taller than me. I come in at an average five feet four. This guy must be six-two, six-three at least. About the same height as Dad and Beck.

And he’s hot.

Super hot.

Like if his hotness were a temperature right now, we’d be in the upper kelvins.

Dude is sun hot.

I have honestly never in all my life seen a guy who looks like him before.

Of course I’ve seen hot guys before.

But this guy, he’s on a whole other level, all his own.

Dirty-blond hair that looks like someone spent the whole night running their hands through it. Leather jacket. No shirt—yep, no frigging shirt. Who even does that? Hot kelvin-temperature guys do, apparently. His bare chest has some serious ink on it, and just beneath the ink are abs that I didn’t even know existed outside of Marvel movies.

And following down from those superhero abs is a happy trail disappearing into those fitted black jeans.

My eyes briefly drift skyward.

Seriously, God, you couldn’t have at least given me a heads-up that I was coming to tow a car that belongs to Thor and Captain Marvel’s love child.

I never feel conscious of my appearance. I’m happy with the way I look. But in this moment, I find myself feeling inadequate in my ripped jeans, tank top, and sneakers. Face clean of makeup and my hair in a messy bun.

Not that I’m out to attract any man. I was done with men when I found my ex with his dick in another woman.