7. Lila
LILA
I'm woken by the shrill sound of my phone vibrating across the nightstand like an angry bee. Groaning, I fumble in the dark, knocking over what feels like a water bottle before my fingers close around the offending device.
I swipe to answer. “Em, seriously? The sun isn't even up.”
“You’re alive!” My sister’s tone is way too chipper for this hour. “Did you forget phones work both ways?”
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my face. “Been busy. There was this system moving through Oklahoma?—”
“I know. I’ve been glued to the Weather Channel since you stopped answering my texts.” Her tone shifts, irritation giving way to worry. “That EF-3 that hit yesterday? Please tell me you weren’t anywhere near that.”
“Not chasing, exactly.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold, thin carpet. “More like…it was chasing me.”
“Lila!” She’s loud enough that I pull the phone away. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Is Dad’s truck okay?” The questions spill out so fast I can barely follow.
“I’m fine, Em. Just tired.” I run a hand through my tangled curls. “And yeah, I got closer than I planned, but I’m okay. Truck’s fine too.”
She lets out a long breath. “One day you’re going to give me a heart attack, you know that? Mom’s worried sick too.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. I should’ve called before I passed out last night, but between the tornado, pulling Dr. Reed out of danger, and sorting through this possible collaboration, it slipped.
“I’ll call Mom later today, I promise.” I lower my tone, glancing toward the thin motel wall. “Look, things are a little complicated right now.”
“Complicated how? Tornado complicated or something else?”
I hesitate, unsure how to explain. “I might’ve been asked to work with a university researcher.”
“With a researcher?” Emily’s tone jumps with surprise. “That’s amazing, Lila! This could get you out of the field and into something safer.”
“What? No, that’s not?—”
“Is it a position? Like analyzing data in a lab instead of driving into tornadoes?” The hope in her words is clear. “Because that would be amazing. Mom would be so relieved.”
I press my fingers against my temple, feeling a headache forming. “Em, it's not what you think. He wants to come with me. In the field.”
“Oh.” The single syllable deflates with disappointment. “So you'd still be chasing, just with someone tagging along?”
“That's the idea. His research could be groundbreaking. The implications alone for an advanced warning system would be amazing,” I stand up, stretching my stiff muscles. “Think about how many lives that could save.”
“I'm thinking about your life,” Emily says quietly. “Every time you chase one of these monsters, I wonder if it's going to be like Dad all over again.”
The guilt stabs through me. “This is different. I'm careful.”
“Dad was careful too.”
I close my eyes, leaning against the wall. We've had this conversation a hundred times since I started chasing.
“So this professor,” Emily continues when I don't respond, “he's going to what? Ride along while you drive.”
“Sort of,” I mumble. “We’re working out the details. I'm meeting with him this morning to go over his research. If it's legit, we'll head to Texas this afternoon to catch the system moving in.”
“And if it's not?”
“Then I go alone, like always.” I hear movement in the hallway outside my door—probably the early risers heading out. I check my watch again. I should start getting ready if I want to beat Dr. Reed to the lobby.
“Is he at least cute?” Emily asks, her tone shifting to something lighter.
I nearly choke. “What? Why would that matter?”
“Because you haven't mentioned another human being in your work conversations in like, three years. I'm just wondering if there's a reason this particular researcher caught your attention.”
“We’re collaborating on potentially groundbreaking research. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” Emily says, and I can practically hear her smirking through the phone. “And what’s his name?”
“Dr. Jonah Reed,” I reply, immediately regretting giving her ammunition.
“Ooh, a doctor. Mom will be impressed.” She’s absolutely enjoying this. “What’s he look like? Give me details.”
“I’m not giving you a full physical description of some guy I just met,” I say, turning toward the motel mirror. My hair is a disaster, sticking up in tangled waves like I stuck my finger in a power outlet. “And he’s not the point of this collaboration.”
The problem is, I can’t exactly tell her that Jonah is not supposed to be the point.
That the point is the research. The possibility that his models could actually improve warning times enough to save lives.
That I am not currently thinking about his stupid broad shoulders, or the fact that he somehow looked unfairly attractive soaking wet after nearly getting sucked into a tornado, or the way he looked at me sometimes last night like he’d lost the thread of what he was saying.
“Fine, be boring,” Emily sighs dramatically. “But send me a picture when you get a chance. For safety reasons,” she adds quickly. “So I know who you’re with.”
“Sure. Safety reasons.” I roll my eyes even though she can’t see it.
The truth is, I already know exactly what picture she’d want.
Jonah squeezed awkwardly into my truck with his knees jammed against the dashboard, trying and failing to act unaffected every time we touched. Jonah blushing bright red after accidentally grabbing my boob when the truck hit that pothole. It’s unsettling how easily those moments replay in my head.
“Look,” I say, dragging myself back into the conversation, “I need to get some sleep.”
“Mmhm. Alone?”
“Emily.”
She laughs loudly enough that I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Okay, okay. But promise you’ll call more often? And be careful with this Texas system?”
“Always am,” I reply, which isn’t really an answer, but it’s the best I’ve got. “Love you.”
“Love you too. Don’t die.”
Our usual goodbye.
The line disconnects, leaving the motel room suddenly quiet.
I set the phone down on the dresser and stare at my reflection again. Then, against my better judgment, my mind drifts right back to Jonah.
God. This collaboration is either going to produce groundbreaking research or completely ruin my life.
I hang up and toss the phone onto the bed, then head for the shower.
The bathroom is typical motel fare, but the water pressure is surprisingly good, and I stand under the hot spray longer than necessary, trying to wash away yesterday's close call.
My muscles ache from the tension of the chase, the adrenaline crash afterward. I roll my shoulders under the water.
Water cascades down my body, washing away the mud and grime from yesterday's chase, but I can't seem to rinse away the memory of being crammed in the truck between Lucas and Jonah.
The feeling of Jonah's lean body pressed against mine, that moment when we hit a bump and his hand accidentally brushed against my breast.
I close my eyes as heat pools low in my belly, completely separate from the shower's temperature.
“Jesus, Lila,” I mutter to myself, but my hand drifts lower across my stomach anyway.
I think about the way his blue eyes had widened when I told him I was going to email him back. How his voice had gone all breathy with excitement when explaining his algorithms. His long fingers tapping against his leg, the way he'd pushed his rain-soaked hair back from his face.
My fingers slip between my thighs, sliding through my wet folds. I lean against the shower wall, imagining his hand there instead of mine. The way he'd looked at me like a man seeing a woman for the first time.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I circle my clit, imagining it's Jonah's finger tracing slow, deliberate circles. His touch would be methodical, I bet. Analytical. He'd catalog my reactions like data points, learning what makes my breath catch.
I slide one finger inside myself. My breath catches as I picture his face, that serious academic expression he wears like armor, breaking into something raw when he sees me coming apart for him.
“Shit,” I whisper, adding another finger and pumping faster. My hips move against my hand, chasing the release that builds like a thunderhead on the horizon.
I shouldn't be doing this. Not when we have to work together. Not when I need to focus on the research, but my body doesn't care about professionalism or propriety. It only wants.
The water pounds against my back as I bring myself to the edge. I bite my lip to keep quiet, imagining it's Jonah's teeth instead. With a final stroke, I come with a shudder, my legs trembling beneath me as pleasure crashes through me like a downdraft.
When I open my eyes, I'm slumped against the shower wall, panting. Reality comes rushing back in with the sound of the water splashing around me.
“Way to stay professional, Lila,” I mutter to myself, pushing away from the wall and turning off the shower. I wrap myself in a thin motel towel and pad across the room to my duffel bag.
As I dress—my lucky red flannel over a black band tee, worn jeans, and sturdy boots—I mentally prepare myself for the meeting ahead. This is business, not pleasure. This collaboration is a means to an end. A way to make my work more impactful, to save lives with a better warning system. Right?
I slip into my boots while I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and check my reflection one more time. The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of yesterday's close call better than words could. I grab my bag, double-check that I have the motel keycard, and head out the door.