Taming the Storm (The Storm 3)

“Twice,” I remind him. I don’t know why I did that.

“See? This is what I mean. He already saw you as a challenge because you knocked him back the first time, so he tried again.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. “He wouldn’t have liked the second knock-back. It was probably worse than the first. Guys like Tom are not used to rejection. It makes you a challenge, and there’s nothing a guy likes more.”

“Cale, he’s not chasing me. He’s given up. He gave up. It was ages ago when he last hit on me, and he hasn’t tried to chase me down since then.” I get to my feet. “It’s done. Over. Anyway, Tom has got way too many other women running after him to bother himself with little ole me. But you’re sweet for worrying.”

I put my arms around his waist, hugging him.

He affectionately kisses the top of my head. “It’s my job to worry about you.”

“Taken on that task, have you?” I lean back to look at him, releasing him from my embrace.

He chucks my chin. “Since I was twelve years old.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. That phone call earlier—it was Jake. He knows that Rally is my dad. Rally called him.”

Cale’s brow furrows as he leans back against the wall. “How did that go?”

“The tour bus is moving, isn’t it?” I smile.

He returns my smile. “It was bound to come out, Ly. And when we’re famous—”

“When?” I grin.

“Damn right, when. The minute our music hits the airwaves, we’re gonna be big, baby!”

I laugh at his enthusiasm and belief in our band.

“You hungry?” He opens the door.

I follow him through. “Is that translation for, you all are hungry, and you want me to make dinner?”

He turns, walking backward. “You know we can’t cook for shit, Ly. So, it’s either that, or we starve, waiting for Henry to make his first stop.” He pouts.

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes and give him a playful shove. “Fine. I’ll cook.”

“You want some help?” He smirks.

He knows I won’t want his help. Cale is a nightmare in the kitchen. He makes more of a mess than imaginable, and he gets in my way. In this kitchen, there’s not enough space for us both.

“Go play games.” I wave my hand in the direction of Sonny and Van, who are playing some racing game.

No sign of Tom. Maybe he’s up front with Henry.

Cale sits with the guys. He tells them I’m going to make dinner. They all shout noises of love for me.

Shaking my head, smiling, I hear a door open behind me, and I see a freshly showered Tom emerging from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel.

My mouth actually starts to water. I kid you not. My eyes take on a mind of their own as they openly stare at him. Skin still wet, rivulets of water trickle down his tattooed chest. Of course, I knew he had tattoos. Both of his arms are sleeved, but he also has them on his chest and stomach, too. TMS is written in large script on his left pec.

And what an amazing pec it is. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him.

More script is under his pec, just above that amazing six-pack of his—Yesterday is a memory. Tomorrow may never be.

I feel a flash of emotion from those words—that is, until I reach the top of his towel. My attention is taken again. I can see some script peeking out, but I can’t make out what it says.

I’m brought back to the now at the sound of Tom clearing his throat.

My eyes dart to his. He’s smirking.

I was totally checking him out, and he knows that I was checking him out.

Crappity crappola.

My guard is back up, and I ignore the heat I feel in my cheeks. In a firm tone, I say, “I’d appreciate it if you’d wear a little more clothing while walking around here.”

His expression stays neutral. “I forgot to take clean clothes in with me. My bad. Won’t happen again.” He turns away from me, but I hear him mutter, “Not her type, my ass.”

Ignore it. He wanted you to hear it. That’s why he said it.

Just ignore it.

Damn it! I can’t ignore it!

“You’re not my type!” I yell out.

Oh God. Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?

I don’t dare to look to see if the guys heard me.

Tom turns with a slim smile on his face. “I’m sorry. What?”

His gaze flickers briefly over my shoulder, telling me everything I need to know. The guys heard me.

Shit.

I straighten my back, steeling myself. “I heard what you said.”

He tilts his head to the side, an innocent look on his face. “And what did I say?”

Game-playing bastard.

“You know what you said.”

“No, I don’t.” He shrugs. “Please enlighten me?”

“Ugh!” I growl, annoyed that he’s making me repeat his snide words. “You said, ‘Not her type, my ass.’”

“You sure I said that?” He rests a shoulder against the wall.

My hands go to my hips. “A hundred percent.”

“But why would I say that?”

“Because I was staring at your bare chest.”

Effing shitting bastard.

He played me.

My face flames. “You’re such a mut!”

He laughs. “I’m a mut? Jesus, what are you? Twelve? And don’t throw insults at me. I wasn’t the one perving on my hot body.”