13. Lila #2
The thought of Dad catches me off guard, the ache of missing him suddenly sharp. I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't put pressure on my injured shoulder.
“I called your sister last night, like you asked.”
I sit up straighter, my good hand gripping the edge of the seat. “Shit, I completely forgot about that. How did it go?”
Jonah adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “She was concerned.”
“Understatement of the year. Emily's the queen of concern.”
“She wanted to book the next flight out,” he continues, checking the mirror before changing lanes. “Said she'd be here by this afternoon if I hadn't talked her down.”
My stomach drops. “Please tell me you stopped her.”
“I did.” He glances over at me. “I told her you were stable, that the injury wasn't as bad as it looked, and that you were in good hands.”
I snort. “Good hands? That's debatable.”
Jonah raises an eyebrow, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I have two working arms, Lila. Statistically speaking, I have the advantage.”
“Low blow, Jonah. Low blow.”
“Am I incorrect in my assessment?” He keeps his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth climbs just enough to be insufferable. I shake my head and turn toward the window before he can see me smile.
“What else did Emily say?”
Jonah hesitates just long enough to make me suspicious. I narrow my eyes, studying his profile. His jaw is doing that thing it does when he's thinking too hard about something—a little flex, a little clench, like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to spit out.
“Jonah.
He keeps his eyes on the road.
“What?”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing, really. She just wanted details about the injury, I gave them, she?—”
“Try again.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. His thumb does one slow drag across the top of the steering wheel.
“Lila, it was a phone call. A very normal, reasonable phone call between me and your sister about your medical status.”
I watch him. The way he's holding his shoulders. The careful, neutral set of his mouth that he's working a little too hard to maintain.
“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” I say. “What else did my sister say?”
The tips of his ears go pink.
“She asked if I was your boyfriend.”
“And what,” I ask carefully, “did you tell her?”
He blinks at the road like it personally offended him.
“I may have told her I was the person responsible for your care and safety,” he says, his voice climbing into a higher register.
“Okay, that's not so bad. That's technically true right now.”
“Oh, and that we’re married.”
I turn so fast in the seat my shoulder immediately protests.
“Um, what?” I stare at him.
A spark of mischief dances in his eyes, and a cocky smirk stretches across his lips. He leans back, clearly relishing my shocked reaction. Is he really teasing me?
“You’re really hanging onto that fake marriage thing, huh?”
A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll admit it did sting a little when you called me your boyfriend last night. Downgrading me so quickly after I saved your life. Ouch.”
I stare at him for half a second before a laugh escapes me. “Oh my God. Are you actually offended I demoted you from fake husband to fake boyfriend?”
“I’m just saying,” Jonah replies with suspicious seriousness, “the relationship regression felt abrupt.”
“Next time it happens, I’ll be sure to tell you in advance.”
“I’d appreciate that,” he smiles back at me.
“Anything else you’d like to share with the class, Professor. You seem to have hit it off with my sister while I was laid up in the hospital.”
“You asked me to call her,” he reminds me before pausing. “She had questions. Many questions.”
I groan and lean my head back against the headrest. “I can only imagine the interrogation you endured. Emily doesn't know the meaning of boundaries.”
He chuckles to himself. “Yeah, I figured that out pretty quickly when she asked for a copy of my driver’s license, social security number, and a blood sample. “
“She asked for your what?” I stare at him in horror.
“Driver's license, blood sample.” What’s the blood for, exactly? She told me it was standard procedure,” Jonah says with a straight face. “Does everyone have to submit a background check to her or is it reserved specifically for men in your life?”
I stare at him in horror. “Please tell me you're joking.”
He pauses just long enough to make me think the worst. “I’m joking. Well, mostly, but it does bring up something that I should have asked earlier. Other than Emily, do you have other emergency contacts? Mom? Real boyfriend or husband?”
I shoot him a knowing look. “Really?”
He shrugs one shoulder, though there’s something almost cautious underneath the teasing now. “It’s an honest question. It’s not like we’ve talked about that.” His fingers tap once against the steering wheel. “For all I know, you could actually be married.”
I stare at him for a second, genuinely thrown by the idea. Could he really think that? That I would spend the last few days flirting with him like this and be involved with someone else?
“Allow me to reassure you, there is no one else.”
Jonah’s expression eases immediately, and my stomach flips at his reaction.
“Probably a good thing considering your sister asked if we were sleeping together. How awkward would that have been if I had said yes.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “God, I'm going to kill her,” I mutter, sinking lower in my seat. The painkillers are definitely not strong enough for this conversation.
“Relax.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “I told her we're colleagues. That it's strictly professional.”
“Good. That's exactly what it is.” I take a long, deliberate sip of coffee to give my mouth something to do.
Professional.
Right.
I stare out the passenger window and let the landscape blur past. Fields and sky and the occasional rusted water tower. My brain is supposed to be on the storm cell, on radar readouts, on where we're setting up next. Not on my sister asking a man I've known for four days if we're sleeping together.
And definitely not on the question itself.
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my good hand and squeeze my eyes shut.
Don't think about it.
Except now I'm thinking about it. Because my brain is a traitor and the painkillers have apparently greased the wheels of every inappropriate thought I've been repressing since Oklahoma.
Would he be methodical about it? Would he make a mental chart of my responses the way he tracks atmospheric data, filing away which touch makes me inhale, which one makes me bite my lip?
Would he be the type to whisper tell me what you need in that low voice he used when the debris had tried to take me out, the one that stripped all the professor out of him and left something raw underneath?
I shift in my seat, the leather suddenly too warm against my thighs.
Or—and this is where the thought goes off the rails entirely—what if all that composure is exactly the cover for the opposite?
What if underneath the careful, measured exterior is someone who doesn't ask permission?
Who takes. Who lifts me against a wall like I weigh nothing, one hand at my jaw turning my face exactly where he wants it, the other?—
Stop.
I dig my nails into my thigh.
Stop, stop, stop.
Max lets out a soft snore from the backseat, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Here I am, one arm in a sling, smelling like hospital antiseptic, and I'm mentally undressing the man driving my truck. My colleague. The one who literally signed discharge papers for me an hour ago.
But the problem with telling yourself not to think about something is that you immediately think about it harder.
And now the image won't leave—those long fingers I've watched take notes and adjust equipment, wrapped around my wrists.
That mouth, the one that talks about millibars and atmospheric models, against my collarbone.
The same analytical mind that can predict a tornado's path would map my body like a research project, and I would let him.
Oh, you are in so much trouble.
“Your sister said I need to tell you to call your mom.”
Jonah's voice cuts through my increasingly inappropriate daydream, yanking me back to reality with the subtlety of a bucket of ice water.
“What?” I blink, my face suddenly burning hot as I realize I've been staring at him for who knows how long, lost in a fantasy that definitely violates every professional boundary we've established.
“I charged your phone if you want to call your mom.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out my battered phone, and hands it over to me.
Yeah, that’s not going to happen today , tomorrow, or even this week.
Not until these stitches are out and I am healed up.
Getting the third degree mom talk is not on my priority list right now.
“Mom and I have a complicated relationship.”
“Complicated how?”
I glance at his profile, wondering how much I want to share. The painkillers are making me dangerously talkative, lowering my usual defenses.
“She wants a daughter who becomes a teacher or a nurse or something sensible. Instead, she got me.” I gesture vaguely with my good hand. “The tornado-chasing adrenaline junkie who followed Dad into the most dangerous profession she could imagine.”
“And she blames you for that choice?”
“She blames me for not stopping after what happened to Dad.” The words come out before I can filter them. “In her mind, I should have learned from his death. Changed careers. Settled down with a husband and kids.”
Jonah's quiet for a moment, processing this. Max rests his chin on the console between us, as if he's following the conversation.
“Do you ever think about it?” Jonah asks finally. “Doing something else?”
“No,” I answer immediately, then pause. “Maybe. Sometimes.”