3. Lila #2
The crowd flows toward the reception area like water finding the path of least resistance. I move against the current, dodging well-meaning and eager students, making a beeline for the small cash bar set up in the corner. The bartender gives me a sympathetic look as I approach.
“Beer,” I say, pulling a twenty from my pocket. “Whatever's coldest.”
He hands me a bottled IPA with a hipster label and makes change. I take a long pull, closing my eyes briefly as the bitter liquid cools my throat. When I open them, I’m face to face with the guy who’d been sitting next to Lucas—the one taking notes through my entire presentation.
“Ms. Brooks,” he greets me, his tone deeper than I expected.
I take another drink instead of answering.
“I’m Dr. Jonah Reed,” he adds, offering his free hand. “Atmospheric Sciences at the University of Oklahoma.”
I shake it, noting the firm grip. “You’re the one who was writing a novel during my presentation.”
His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile he doesn’t know how to fully use.
His gaze lingers, studying me with an intensity that makes me shift.
He is taller than I expected. Enough so that I have to tip my head back a little–easily over six feet–with broad shoulders stretching beneath a crisp button-down rolled neatly to his forearms. The sleeves pull tight when he crosses his arms, revealing lean muscle that definitely didn’t come from lifting weights.
More like hauling equipment. Dark hair brushes the tops of his ears in messy waves that look accidental until you notice the rest of him is painfully put together.
“Notes,” he corrects.
“Most people doodle tornadoes.”
“I’d like to talk through your methods in more detail.”
Ah. There it is. Another lab rat who wants to mine my brain for free insights so they can publish something with their name slapped across the top while I am out risking my life. I almost sigh out loud, but I stop myself before it happens.
I lean back against the bar, and take another long sip of my beer. “Look, Dr. Reed, I've had a long day explaining myself to people who think they understand what I do. So unless you're buying the next round, I'm not really in the mood for shop talk right now.”
His eyebrows lift, but to his credit, he doesn't look offended. Instead, he turns to the bartender. “Another of whatever she's having, please. And a club soda with lime for me.”
Well, that's unexpected. I take another swig of my beer while he pays.
“Club soda?” I ask. “Odd choice when there’s an open bar.”
“I’m driving. Plus, I don’t particularly enjoy alcohol.”
I stare at him. “You get less fun every time you speak. You realize that, right?”
That almost-smile appears again. It changes his whole face when it happens. It makes him look more human and less robotic. Unfortunately, it’s attractive, which greatly annoys me.
“I should apologize for my colleague,” he says, nodding toward where Lucas stands across the room, already surrounded by admirers. “Lucas likes to press buttons.”
“You think?” I snort. “That's what TV weather personalities do.”
The bartender slides another beer toward me. I accept it with a nod of thanks, though I haven't finished my first.
“I know that you’ve spent the last hour talking about your science mission, but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?
” Dr. Reed says, picking up his club soda, “I'm interested in your multiple vortex formation research.
I believe it could be integral to some work I'm pursuing.” He takes a sip of his club soda, watching me over the rim.
“Specifically, I've developed algorithms that might predict the conditions for those formations before they occur.”
I narrow my gaze. “Predictive modeling for multiple vortices? That’s been the meteorological white whale for decades.”
“Yes.”
The confidence in the single world should probably irritate me more, but instead, it sparks something curious low in my stomach. Most researchers either oversell their work or hide behind cautious academic hedging. Jonah Reed says impossible things like he’s already halfway to solving them.
“That's a pretty massive claim to make.”
“It’s a hypothesis,” he corrects himself automatically. “One that I am very close to proving. Hence my interest in your observational data.” He taps his notebook. “Your data patterns line up remarkably well with my framework.”
Despite my exhaustion and irritation, curiosity pushes through. “What kind of algorithms? Pressure differential analysis? Or something based on rotation intensity?”
“Both, actually, with additional variables for temperature gradients and wind shear at multiple altitudes.” His expression shifts, lit with genuine enthusiasm. “I’ve built a three-dimensional model that pulls in real-time data from ground stations, weather balloons, and satellite imagery.”
I hate to admit it, but I'm intrigued. Most lab-based models I've encountered are too simplified to capture the reality I witness in the field. But the way he describes his approach suggests a complexity that might actually reflect what happens inside a supercell.
“Sounds impressive on paper, but theoretical models are only as good as their field validation.”
“That’s why I wanted to speak with you.” He leans forward. “I have a proposal that might interest you.”
“You want to work with me?”
“Yes.” Yep, still irritating the second time he says it like it’s already a foregone conclusion that I will agree to his proposal.
“And what does this partnership look like in practice?” I ask, skeptical. “You sitting in a lab while I'm out dodging flying cow parts?”
“Actually, I was thinking of something more collaborative. I'd join you in the field.”
I nearly spit out my beer. “You? In the field?”
I scan him from head to toe. His pressed khakis and button-down shirt scream indoor cat.
“I've done field work before,” he says, a touch defensively.
“Where? The university quad when it's drizzling?”
His jaw tightens slightly, and for the first time all evening, I manage to visibly get under his skin. Interesting. Maybe he’s not fully a science robot.
“I spent two summers with the VORTEX project as a graduate student. I'm not completely inexperienced.”
That surprises me. The VORTEX project was legitimate research. Not as intense as what I do, but not exactly weather camp either.
“That was what, ten years ago?”
“Eight,” he corrects. “And yes, I've been focused on computational modeling since then, but I understand the principles of field observation.”
I take another swig of beer, studying him over the bottle.
He holds eye contact better than most people.
The more I take him in while he rambles on about his theories, the more I notice about him.
There’s a faint scar near his wrist disappearing beneath his rolled sleeve.
His hands look rougher than I expected for someone buried in academia.
Not construction-worker rough, but not soft either.
His posture has even shifted since we started talking. Looser now. Less stiff.
“What’s in it for me besides acting as your tornado tour guide?”
“Joint institutional funding, for starters,” Dr. Reed says, without hesitation. “Full credit on any publications that result from our collaboration. And access to computational resources you likely don't have on your own.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So let me get this straight. You want me to chauffeur you around tornado alley, and in exchange I get my name on some paper nobody outside academia will read?”
“Your name would be first author,” he clarifies, as if that's the sticking point. “And the algorithms I've developed could potentially provide you with prediction capabilities beyond what's currently available through the National Weather Service.”
“How much beyond?”
“Potentially, a forty percent improvement in lead time for tornado formation, with twenty-two percent greater accuracy in predicting intensity.”
I study his face, looking for signs he's overselling. Nothing. No arrogance. No salesman pitch. Just the same calm certainty. Those numbers would be revolutionary if they’re real.
“You have proof of those statistics?”
“In simulations, yes. Which is why I need field validation. My models perform exceptionally well with historical data, but without real-time testing?—”
“They're just fancy math problems,” I finish for him.
He nods once. “Exactly.”
“You know that I publish my data on my website. You don’t have to go out into the field to get it.”
His lips thin as he quietly processes that. “I need real-time input and adjustment capabilities,” he says finally. “Your archived data is valuable, but for this model to work properly, I need to be able to calibrate as conditions evolve.”
I drain the rest of my first beer and set the bottle down with more force than necessary. “So you want to ride shotgun while I chase, feeding my observations into your laptop in real-time.”
“That's an oversimplification, but essentially correct.”
I stare at him for a second before laughing under my breath. Something about his earnestness makes me want to mess with him. To rattle his lab rat cage.
“You in my truck riding shotgun is genuinely difficult for me to picture.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, you look like you’d apologize to your dry cleaner for existing.”
To my satisfaction, that actually earns a real smile this time. Not the restrained almost-smile. A full one. And wow. It should honestly come with some kind of warning label. It transforms him completely. It eases him just enough that I suddenly understand why women go for quiet types like him.
“You’ve made several assumptions about me tonight,” he remarks.
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall forward to screen the full force of my scrutiny. “You invited it with when you approached me dressed like a Banana Republic mannequin. You gave me all the ammo I needed.”
He cocks one eyebrow. “I fail to see how my choice of slacks is relevant to a scientific partnership.”