Page 89 of Finding Storm

“Morten Harket.”

“That’s the one.” She clicks her fingers. “Total DILF.”

“True dat. And yeah, I might freak a little. But that’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It just is.”

Her gaze narrows. “It isn’t, and you know it.”

She’s totally right. It isn’t different at all. And now, I feel like a total douchecanoe and a massive hypocrite because I would freak if it were Jim Kerr or Morten Harket sitting in there.

And that makes me no different to Penny and how she’s reacting now.

But he’s just … Nick. I mean, Storm. Damn it!

“Fine, you’re right. It isn’t any different. But at the end of the day, he’s just a guy, Pen. A really nice guy from what I know of him.” Really fucking nice and hot and gorgeous and everything in between. “Who’s had a shitty time of it. And yeah, he’s famous, but knowing that doesn’t mean I’m going to treat him any differently. And neither are you.” I point at her. “Or you.” My finger travels to Gran, who laughs.

“Stevie, I have far better things to do with my time than go giddy over a rock star. Penny’s the one you need to worry about.”

“Hey!” she says indignantly. “I have some self-control. Well, okay, I don’t,” she says at my and Gran’s expressions. “But I can be cool. And anyway, I think Raze Rawlins is hotter,” she adds with a toss of hair.

“Who’s Raze Rawlins?” I ask.

“Christ almighty, Stevie,” Pen sighs.

“Raze is the singer in Storm’s band,” Gran tells me while getting the now-freshly-made waffles out of the maker.

How does Gran even know all of this stuff?

“See, even Gran knows!” Pen exclaims. “Babe, I love ya. But you really need to spend more time out of the eighties.”

I lean my hip against the counter. “And why would I do that when all the best music came from that decade?”

“I wouldn’t say that to your boyfriend in there.”

“Shut up! He’s not my boyfriend.” And I’m five years old and back in the school playground.

Pen laughs. “You’re totally crushing on him. I could tell yesterday.”

“Whatever. He’s good-looking. And since I last checked, it’s not a crime to crush on a good-looking guy.”

“No, it’s not. And it’s definitely about time.”

I give Pen a look. “I said I was crushing. Not that I was going to do anything about it.”

“I told her she should,” Gran imparts while getting the strawberries from the refrigerator to top Nick’s—Storm’s, damn it!—waffle.

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for both of your input, but I can handle my love life”—or lack of it—“myself. And as for Nick—Storm, or whatever the hell he’s called, we keep silent. We do not let on that we know his real name. He wants us to call him Nick, so that’s the name we’ll call him.”

“What if he wants you to call him Daddy?” Pen says, and I nearly choke.

“Jesus, Pen!” I splutter.

“Just saying, I’d call him Daddy if he asked me to.” She shrugs, grinning.

“Me too,” Grans says.