3. Lila #3
“Trust me, it matters.” How, honestly, I’m not really sure, but it’s getting a rise out of him. “Had you approached me in dirty jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, I’d have taken you more seriously from the start.”
His laugh catches me off guard. Rusty, like he doesn’t do it often. And for some deeply unfortunate reason, I want to bottle that laugh, or maybe smash it to see what’s inside. Instead, I lean in, elbows braced on the bar, and let my curiosity run wild.
“So what happens,” I ask, leaning one elbow against the bar toward him, “when your very expensive algorithms tell us to drive directly into a tornado?” I can hear the dare in my own voice, the way it challenges him to rise to my level.
He doesn’t flinch. “They wouldn’t.”
“You say that with a concerning amount of confidence,” I prod.
He sets his club soda back onto the bar. “They’d tell us to reposition strategically around the tornado.” The way he says ‘strategically’ with the sort of adoration that other people would use for sacred texts or the birth weights of their children.
I grin. “See? That’s exactly the kind of sentence that gets people killed.”
He doesn’t bristle at the jab. Instead, he studies me, and for a second, there’s a flicker of something I can’t place across his face.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth for the briefest of seconds.
Long enough to notice that if I were somebody else, with different wiring, I might have leaned in and let him keep staring.
I doubt he would know what do if I did that, and part of me, a very small part, wants to test the theory.
“I was under the impression you enjoy dangerous situations.”
Something in my stomach gives, hot and sharp, and I realize–horrifying–that I want him to say more things in that voice. “Was that flirting, Professor?”
His entire body freezes. He blinks once, twice, as if rebooting, and then his expression flattens so hard and fast that it almost leaves a bruise. “No,” he answers in a tone that could freezer mercury.
Liar. Because now his ears are turning pink at the tips, and his left hand is flexing, as if he wants to either reach for me or run away.
“You know,” I say lightly, stepping a little closer under the excuse of reaching for my fresh beer, “for someone who claims this is strictly professional, you keep staring at my mouth.”
His breath catches. Actually catches. It’s tiny. Most people wouldn’t notice it. I do. And suddenly I’m having a very hard time remembering why I was determined not to like him. Dammit.
His eyes stay on mine a beat longer than they need to before he straightens, recalibrating. “That would be unprofessional.”
“But not inaccurate?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
There’s a specific frequency at which Dr. Reed starts to come apart at the seams, and clearly, I just found it. I’m not proud of how much I want to stay right here and keep tuning the dials.
“Do you do this will all your research partners?” he asks.
“Only the cute ones.”
I hear it leave my mouth. I don’t take it back.
He full-body pauses, like a computer glitching. He fingers shift around his club soda. Then his eyes come back to mine.”
“You think I’m cute.”
Not quite a question. Like he’s reading it back to himself to check the data, which is insane. The man looks like someone filed a grant proposal to build him. Like academic personally handcrafted him in a lab somewhere.
I take another sip of beer to hide my smile. “Don’t let it go to your head, Professor.”
That low laugh escapes him again, warmer this time, and he ducks his head when it happens, like he’s not quite sure what to do with it.
And now it’s my turn to stare. The rolled sleeves show a stretch of forearm that leads to broad shoulders. The way he holds himself like he’s always braced for a question he’ll need to answer perfectly. Women with worse judgement than mine have made worse decisions for less.
“So why me?” I ask. “There are other storm chasers with research backgrounds who would kill for this kind of funding. People with actual doctorates.”
Dr. Reed takes a slow sip of his club soda. “Because they were taught to chase storms in a classroom. You weren’t.”
I blink at him. I’m not sure what surprises me more—that he values my lack of formal education or that he’s willing to admit it out loud.
Most academics I’ve met spend half their time subtly reminding me I don’t belong in rooms like this.
Jonah says it like experience matters more than credentials. Like I matter more than credentials.
And judging by the steady way he’s looking at me right now, he doesn’t even realize how rare that is.
I take a long pull from my second beer, letting the thought settle heavily in my chest.
Real funding. Real credit. And most importantly, the chance to improve warning systems that could actually save lives. The thing Dad gave everything to.
“It’s a real partnership, Ms. Brooks,” he says quietly. “Your expertise matters just as much as mine.”
Something in my expression must shift, because his gaze softens almost imperceptibly. And suddenly the air between us feels different again. Less teasing. Less sparring.
For one brief second, I have the bizarre urge to ask him what he looks like when he’s not exhausted.
What his apartment looks like. Whether anyone remembers to take care of him while he’s busy trying to save everyone else.
Which is an insane line of thought to have about a man I met less than an hour ago.
I’m about to answer when a voice slices through the moment like a knife.
“Well, this is cozy.”
Jonah’s entire posture changes instantly.
His shoulders straighten. His expression cools. The warmth disappears behind that composed academic mask so fast it gives me emotional whiplash.
Lucas appears beside us, clapping a hand onto Jonah’s shoulder. “I see you two have met.” His grin widens as he looks between us. “Isn’t she exactly what I told you she’d be?” He winks at me. “Fierce, brilliant, and beautiful.”
Heat rushes straight into my face.
“Lucas,” he cuts in sharply. “This isn’t the time.”
But Lucas barrels on, oblivious. “So? Has he convinced you yet? I told Jonah you’d be perfect for his project. The stuffy professor and the wild storm chaser—it’s like the beginning of a rom-com.”
He laughs and raises his glass in a mock toast.
Something in my stomach sinks.
Not because of the joke itself, but because suddenly the entire conversation feels different. Smaller somehow. Like all the seriousness of it—the research, the partnership, the respect I thought Jonah genuinely had for my work—just got reduced to chemistry and banter in a crowded bar.
I grip my beer bottle tighter.
Jonah says my name, but embarrassment is already burning hot under my skin.
Of course. Pretty storm chaser meets socially awkward professor while his TV weatherman friend plays matchmaker. I can already imagine the version of this story everyone else in the room is seeing.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, setting my beer down. “I need some air.”
“Lila, wait?—”
Jonah reaches toward me instinctively, fingers brushing my wrist for half a second before I pull away.
I’m already moving through the crowd toward the exit, boots striking hard against the polished floor. The night air hits me cool and sharp when I shove through the doors. I lean against the brick outside, breathing until the sting in my chest eases.
For a moment in there, I’d almost believed him.
A real partnership. Real credit. A chance to contribute to something that could actually save lives.
And maybe Jonah meant every word he said.
Maybe that’s what bothers me most. I’d have validation if this worked out.
Proof that carrying on Dad’s work meant something beyond storm chasing clips and weather forums. Proof that I belonged in scientific conversations even without the degrees hanging on the wall.
I close my eyes briefly, frustrated with myself. I don’t need to be anyone’s field accessory. And I don’t need to squeeze myself into someone else’s version of legitimacy just to feel like my work matters.
For a moment, I’d almost forgotten that.
The storm doesn’t ask permission. Neither did Dad. Neither do I.