Page 44 of Finding Storm

I slide my eyes to him. “Um, you don’t?”

A slow grin and a shake of his head. “Not my kind of music.”

Oh dear. Another hot point gone. Shame ’cause he’s so pretty.

“Dude. It’s The B-52s! Come on! ‘Love Shack’? Really?”

Amusement fills his eyes. “Nope. Definitely not my kind of music.”

“Fun music isn’t your kind of music? Shame. Your life must be so dull.”

He chuckles. “It’s gimmicky crap.”

“Oh no.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “You’re one of those.”

He frowns, a line drawing between his brows. “One of what?”

“A music snob. You’re all hoity-toity about songs. Like those people who sip wine and then spit it out to experience the flavor or some shit when, really, they should be swallowing.”

He chokes out a laugh, but I keep going.

“Music snobs think they have a far more refined taste in music than us mere mortals. Never would they be heard rocking out to ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.’ ”

“To be fair, it is a shit song.”

My mouth pops into an O. “Sacrilege! How dare you bad-mouth Wham! Get out of my truck!” I joke, pointing at the door beside him.

“Come on, it’s absolute shit. Total novelty song. Just like this one is.” He gestures to the radio, which is still playing The B-52s.

“Music snob.” I shake my head in mock disgust. “What is this fun music I’m hearing?” I put on my best snooty voice, pressing my hand to my chest in dramatic flair. “Music should be depressing. About love gone wrong. This is not music. Don’t even get me started on those happy lyrics!” I give a sardonic eye roll.

He’s laughing properly now. A full-on belly laugh.

Weirdly, I feel like I’ve won something in this moment. I smile wider than I have in ages.

“A song should make sense,” he says, his laughter slowing. “ ‘Love Shack’ does not make sense.”

“Hey! It makes total sense.”

“Really?” His damn brow goes up again, and he angles his body my way. “What’s it about then?”

“Um … a love shack. A place where people go to get together. And dance.” I give a cheesy grin.

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“And the tin roof is rusted.”

His laugh intensifies.

“It’s about sex.”

That shuts him up.

And I can’t believe I just said that. If Pen could hear me now, she’d be high-fiving the hell out of me. I’m talking about sex with a guy I’ve known barely fifteen minutes.

Me, I’m about to stroke out.

I know my chest has gone red. It’s always my tell when I’m embarrassed. Or turned on.