EIGHTEEN Quincy
Mia
Good luck today, Quin!
Harlow
Grab those men by the balls and show them what a badass bitch you are.
Mia
Let us know when you’re ?nished so we can get dinner and hear all about it.
I don’t think I’ve slept in a week. Between my shows and getting this presentation ready, I’m a zombie. I hope it goes well.
Mia
You’re going to do great. We believe in you.
I might need a bottle of wine later in case things go to shit.
Harlow
They’re not going to.
I love y’all. I wish you were doing the hiring.
Mia
Probably for the best that we’re not. I don’t know what three-quarters of the words you use mean. I’m not ?t to hire meteorologists, and I don’t want the country to head into a weather crisis because of my poor choices.
Harlow
We’ll be your virtual hype squad.
Okay, I’m going inside. I can do this. I’ll see you tonight!
Mia
Knock them dead, babe.
The universe isn’t fair.
If it were, I wouldn’t be seeing Sebastian like this for the first time since he gave me an orgasm.
He’s wearing business casual, complete with a tie that matches his eyes and polished leather shoes with laces tied in neat bows. His slacks are pressed and tailored, cuffed right above the ankle so they show off the hint of a fun pair of socks.
Penguins holding umbrellas and dancing in the rain.
They’re ridiculously cute.
He rolled his sleeves to his elbows to show off his forearms, and when he looks up at me with a grin the devil himself would be proud of, I almost trip.
Goddamn him for pressing me into a wall.
And goddamn me for going along with it.
“There she is.” Sebastian stands, a folder tucked under his arm and his jacket slung over the back of his chair. “I was starting to think you might not show.”
“I needed a few minutes of peace and quiet before I kicked your ass. It’s always good to relax before you drink the blood of your enemies.”
“Enemy, huh?” His eyes flick down my body.
A delighted hum sneaks out of him when he studies the blouse I buttoned close to my neck and the black skirt I ironed late last night when my stomach was knotted with nerves.
There’s a low whistle. The hint of a flush to his cheeks. “Damn. You look good, Quincy.”
“Thanks.” It’s my turn to blush, and I do my best to recover quickly. “The paper on the door says we’ll be on a panel with a guy named Dennis Terry. Have you heard of him?”
“Vaguely. Tampa guy, I think. No idea about his credentials. This is going to be interesting. I haven’t done a debate panel since some of our college classes. It’s an unusual approach, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but you know how it is. So much of this job is data-driven, and evolving research in our field is always a hot topic. Different opinions, different methods. Different approaches and different models to forecast intensities and which version is the ‘best’ and most ‘accurate.’ Presenting alongside our colleagues opens the door for conversations we’d have in real life too. ”
“Think you can play fair today?” Sebastian reaches for me. He gives me a smile that makes me weak in the knees before I remember why we’re both here. I knock his hand away with a scowl. “It’s going to be fun to kick that sweet ass of yours.”
“Sweet, huh?” I bat my eyes and adjust the strap of my purse from digging into my shoulder. “I think it’s really important for you to know something before we go in there, Dunn.”
“And what’s that?” He steps closer. I can smell his cologne, and I hold my breath to stop myself from inhaling the scent of it. “Are you going to tell me how much you missed me?”
“No.” I stand on my toes, grateful my heels make me taller. I play with the button on the top of his shirt, the one right near his collar, and smile when I hear the shift in his breathing. “I’m not wearing any underwear,” I murmur, patting his chest before sauntering toward the interview room.
Dennis, as it turns out, sweats profusely when under pressure. A drop of his perspiration lands on the stack of papers in front of me when he hurries to take off his suit jacket. The bodily fluid bleeds into the pen marks in the margin of my notes, and the napkin I offer him gets turned down.
The interviewers file into the room and settle in their seats. I force myself to take a deep breath.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” The one on the left—Dr. Matthews, according to his nameplate—adjusts his glasses and squints at the sheet he’s holding under the conference room’s fluorescent lights.
He glances up, peering at the three of us, and clears his throat.
“I’m sorry. I think there might be a mistake. Is there a Quincy Monroe here?”
“Hi.” I wave. “That’s me.”
“I see.” He stares at the paper then looks back up at me. “I wasn’t expecting, well …”
“Expecting what, Doctor?” I ask, anticipating how he’s going to finish his sentence.
“A woman,” he settles on. “Based on the gender-neutral name and the majority of the demographic in the agency, I’m … surprised.”
“I believe you know Dr. Baldwin, over at UCF? He was instrumental in my PhD program, and his knowledge of the meteorological field made me eager to pursue an atmospheric science degree in higher education.” I plaster on a smile.
“I’m aware of the large demographic that makes up the NWS and NOAA, but that’s the wonderful thing about weather.
It shouldn’t be limited to a certain group of people.
It exists around all of us, all the time.
Disaster doesn’t care what someone looks like, nor does it care who is the one reporting on it.
At the end of the day, we have a duty to save lives. ”
Sebastian rests a hand on my knee, the touch hidden by the table we’re sitting behind. He gives my leg a reassuring squeeze. Not overbearing, not reactive. A signal he’s there if I need him.
“Well. We’re glad you’re here.” Dr. Matthews clasps his hands together, glancing at his interview partners. “Should we get started?”
Dennis, the poor guy, kicks us off by talking about a topic different than the one asked to him for three minutes before realizing he’s reading off the wrong notecard. There’s an awkward pause while he tries to right himself, getting frustrated when the outline he created is upside down.
“Thank you, Dennis.” Dr. Schneider, sitting on the other side of the table, shuffles his papers. “Ms. Monroe. I believe you brought in research on— What does that say?”
“The future of supercells,” I supply. “I compared cells over the last fifteen years to those from the eighties and nineties, primarily focusing on how climate change might be affecting those supercells.”
“Interesting.” Dr. Schneider keeps his eyes on me. “What approach are you taking?”
“Regional, convection-permitting mesoscale models. I’m simulating the convection in hopes it will give me some answers as to what might happen to cells in the next twenty years.”
“And your findings?”
“Climatological aspects affect supercells, primarily their frequency and intensity. We all know that.” I flip through my notes and tap the box of data I’ve put together.
It’s research I started as an undergrad, an interest I’ve carried with me in the years that have passed.
“It’s all in the early stages of data collection, but projections indicate supercells will become more frequent in regions of the eastern continental United States.
Regions in the Great Plains will, ironically, see a decrease in strong weather events like tornadoes and hailstorms.”
“Pardon the interruption, Dr. Schneider, but may I ask a question?” Sebastian interrupts, and I can’t help but smirk.
I’m transported back to college. The years we spent on opposite sides of lecture halls having heated discussions about forecasting models and atmospheric dynamics when we were young, eager, and unjaded.
“Please, Mr. Dunn. I’m eager to hear your thoughts.”
Sebastian turns to face me. I see him out of my peripheral vision but keep my eyes trained ahead, ready for whatever he might throw my way.
“The data you provided suggests supercells will decrease midsummer to early fall.” He drums his fingers on my notes. I didn’t realize he was reading over my shoulder. “Is that right, Dr. Monroe?”
My lips twitch with a smile. I could get used to him using my official title. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean the country is safe from any weather events. There’s the potential for more significant tornadoes and extreme rainfall that could have horrible consequences if not studied.”
“So, if the supercells decrease in midsummer, when are these extreme events going to happen?”
“Under the emissions scenario I ran, the events will increase in late winter and early spring months.”
“And what makes the supercell different from a regular cellular convection?”
I have to hold back a laugh at his easy question. “Supercells have a deep, persistent mesocyclone and a different vertical velocity. I could give you a math lesson, but I’m not sure anyone else in the room wants to talk about orders and powers.”
“Probably not.” His own laugh is deep and low. “Maybe you can save it for after the group discussion. I’m very fascinated by this subject, and I’d love to hear more, Dr. Monroe.”
His smile isn’t cocky. It’s not smug.
It’s not even I told you so.
Proud might be the right word, and he follows it up with another nudge of his knee. With a wink, pretty blue eyes twinkling in my direction.
“I’ll find you when we’re finished here and we can discuss it in greater detail,” I say, directing my attention back to Dr. Schneider.
“Very interesting observations, Ms. Monroe,” he says.
“Dr. Monroe,” Sebastian corrects.
“My apologies. This next question is for Mr. Dunn. You’re on television, correct?” Dr. Schneider asks.
“I am indeed, sir. Senior meteorologist at ABC. I feel fortunate for the opportunity to explore deeper issues related to our weather systems and climate change as a whole. I—”
“I’m very curious.” Dr. Schneider scoots his chair forward. “Who’s the most famous person you’ve ever met?”
Sebastian’s smile twists to a frown. “I saw Keanu Reeves at a fundraiser. He was a nice guy.”