Page 40 of Finding Storm

And this dude here has got heartbreak written all over him in capital letters in bold, italicized ink. Probably put there by the trail of broken hearts he’s left in his wake.

Not that I’d even register on leather-jacket hottie’s radar.

Cleaned-up Stevie? Maybe.

Hobo Stevie? Not a chance.

Basically, if hotness had a smell, his would be Chanel No. 5.

Mine would be store-bought body spray. The dollar-store kind.

I was not expecting a guy like this. I figured a suit when Beck said Maserati. This guy looks like he just stepped out for a break from shooting a movie, in which his hotness smoldered his shirt right off his back.

It’s then I register that he’s got a cigarette in his hand. He’s holding it between his thumb and index finger. Which would be cool if smoking wasn’t responsible for half a million deaths in the US alone each year. A good forty thousand of them from passive smoking.

The thought makes me lean back a touch.

I watch him put it between his lips and inhale. The smoke drifts out between his lips, curling up into the air, polluting my oxygen.

Even though he looks seriously sexy doing it, old-movie-star sexy, it’s still gross. Cigarettes are bad for people. Terrible for marine life.

He might want to kill himself slowly.

But our marine life didn’t ask to die.

Hotness point deducted for a lack of care about the environment.

He drops the cigarette butt to the floor as I approach, putting it out with his boot. Christ, his feet are big.

Big feet, big … shoes.

Funny, Stevie.

I stop before him and wait for him to pick the butt off the ground. He doesn’t.

Environmental issues aside, littering is my bugbear.

“That’s littering.” I point at the butt on the floor by his feet.

His eyes follow my finger down and then come back up to my face, staring straight into mine.

I feel a jolt in my stomach. A tightening in my chest. His eyes are intense. Bright blue. Stunning.

Christ almighty.

It takes me a good few seconds to regulate my breathing.

He’s watching me like he’s waiting for something.

Not sure what.

But I do know that I’m waiting for him to pick up that damn cigarette butt.

I watch confusion flicker over his face, drawing his brows in and tightening his lips.

His head tips to the side. Then, his expression relaxes, and something close to amusement fills his gaze.

Does he think this is funny? Because littering is no joke.