7. Lila #2
The hallway is quiet, most guests still asleep at this hour, and the early risers rush already out the door and on their way.
Outside, the morning air is crisp and clean, the way it always is after a major storm system passes through.
Like the world has been power-washed. The sky is that particular shade of post-storm blue that never shows up in photographs, no matter how good your camera is.
I make my way to the small lobby, expecting to be the first one there. I'm not.
Dr. Reed is already seated at one of the small tables, his laptop open, three different notebooks spread around him like he's setting up a command center.
He hasn't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever he's typing.
His brow is furrowed in concentration, fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard.
There's an intensity to his focus that reminds me of Dad when he was processing data after a chase—that same tunnel vision that blocks out the rest of the world.
I clear my throat. “You're early.”
He jumps slightly, looking up with wide eyes. “Ms. Brooks! Good morning.”
His cheeriness hits me all at once. “First off, you can call me Lila. Second, wait until I’ve had coffee before you get that excited.”
Reed’s smile dips for a second, then comes right back. “Right. Sorry. There’s coffee in that corner.” He gestures to a sad little setup with a commercial drip machine. “It’s…acceptable.”
“I’ll take acceptable.” I head over, aware of his attention on me as I pour the dark liquid into a Styrofoam cup. It smells burnt, but I’m not in a position to be picky. I take a sip and wince. Definitely burnt, with an aftertaste like someone melted a tire into it.
“I tried to warn you,” Reed calls from across the empty lobby.
I make my way back and drop into the chair opposite him. “I’ve had worse. Once spent three days at a truck stop in Nebraska where the coffee was so thick you could stand a spoon in it.” I take another sip. “Honestly, after enough hours awake, I’ll take anything thick and hot if it keeps me going.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I watch it land. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The tips of his ears go red, and he suddenly finds the lid of his coffee cup extremely interesting.
“That came out wrong,” I say.
“Did it?”
His mouth twitches despite himself, and the look he gives me over the rim of his cup lands somewhere between embarrassed and intensely aware.
Considering I’d gotten myself off in the shower less than an hour ago while thinking about him, the heat pooling low in my stomach is already starting to spark back to life.
Just fucking great. We’re not even ten minutes into this meeting, and my hormones are already acting like they’ve lost all higher reasoning skills.
I take another sip of coffee mostly to buy myself a second to regroup, but my eyes drift right to him.
Despite the early hour, Jonah somehow looks unfairly put together. His dark hair is clean, and neat, unlike yesterday. The button up he’s wearing is form fitting, showing off more of his lean build. Though, I am disappointed that his forearms are covered this morning.
And the worst part? I don’t think he’s trying.
Most attractive men know exactly what they’re doing.
Jonah looks completely unaware that he’s sitting here in a motel breakfast room looking like every sexually repressed academic fantasy ever created.
He’s a walking, talking example of the hot professor all the students want to sleep with, and he has no idea.
“So,” I say before my thoughts drift any farther into dangerous territory, “how about we ignore the last few seconds of conversation and you show me these miraculous algorithms of yours?”
Jonah straightens, composure settling carefully back into place like he’s relieved to retreat into familiar territory.
“Right,” he says quickly. “Of course.” He turns the laptop toward me, colorful modeling data filling the screen as he leans closer.
“This is a simulation of yesterday’s system,” he explains. “If you look here–,”
I lean in beside him to study the screen. Immediately aware again of how close we are. And judging by the way Jonah briefly loses his place mid-sentence, he notices it too.
The simulation on the screen is incredibly detailed—far beyond the simplified models most researchers try to impress me with.
This isn’t just colored pressure blobs moving across a flat map.
It’s layered, dynamic, alive with data. Storm structure rendered in three dimensions with overlapping atmospheric variables updating in real time.
“These parameters include ground temperature, dew point, wind shear at multiple altitudes, and several variables most models ignore,” he explains, settling more confidently into the science now. “Soil moisture content. Terrain elevation shifts. Surface roughness coefficients.”
I hate to admit it, but I'm impressed. “Most university models don’t account for terrain,” I say.
Jonah looks up at me then, and for one second we’re suddenly much more aware of each other than the laptop between us.
“They should. Storms do.”
He taps a few keys, and the simulation begins to run. “Watch this area here.”
I follow his finger to a section of the model where the colors shift gradually from yellow to orange. The simulation advances through time, atmospheric layers rotating and tightening across the screen, and right where Jonah indicated, rotation begins to form.
My attention sharpens instantly.
As the model continues, the circulation intensifies until the projected touchdown point appears almost exactly where yesterday’s tornado actually formed.
“That's…” I struggle to find words that don’t sound too impressed. “That’s pretty accurate.”
Jonah glances toward me, and I can tell he’s trying very hard not to react to the compliment too strongly.
“It’s more than accurate. The model predicted the tornado forty-seven minutes before formation, and it was only off by 1.8 miles on touchdown location.”
I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair. “One successful hindcast doesn’t prove anything. What else do you have?”
His face falls, but he recovers quickly. “I've been running forecasts for every major system in the Central Plains for the past six months. The results have been consistent.”
The confidence in his voice catches my attention almost as much as the data itself. Not arrogance. Conviction. Jonah believes in this model completely. God, he’s attractive like this.
“Show me the Texas system. The one that's supposed to hit tomorrow. What's your model predicting?”
His expression brightens. He taps a few keys, pulling up a different simulation. This one shows a developing system over the Texas Panhandle, colors swirling in complex patterns that grab my attention right away.
“Current NWS models show about a thirty percent chance of severe weather,” he explains, “with possible isolated tornadoes. But my algorithm points to something higher—closer to seventy percent in this region.” He gestures to a spot on the map.
“That’s exactly where I was planning to set up tomorrow.”
He pauses, surprise flickering across his face. “You were already targeting the same area?”
“Don't look so surprised. I've been doing this a while.” I tap the screen where his model shows the most intense rotation.
“But the National Weather Service is only giving it a thirty percent chance,” he says.
“The NWS is conservative by design. They don't want to cry wolf.” I take another sip of the terrible coffee, grimacing at the taste. “But anyone who knows what to look for can see this system has major potential.”
He is clearly pleased that our assessments align. “So you believe my model is accurate?”
“I believe it’s showing what I already suspected,” I clarify, refusing to give him too much satisfaction. “Which means either you got lucky, or there’s actually something to these algorithms of yours.”
Jonah leans back in his chair. “You know,” he says, fingers resting loosely beside the keyboard, “most people would just admit they’re impressed.”
“Most people don’t survive by assuming they’re the smartest person in the room.”
“And you do?”
I meet his gaze evenly. “I survive by assuming storms don’t care about confidence.”
“Good thing I’m more interested in data than confidence, then.”
This man could probably make tax law sound attractive if he explained it with enough intensity.
I lean closer to the laptop again mostly so I stop thinking about that.
“Let's say I agree to this partnership,” I say slowly. “What exactly are you hoping to get from it, beyond field validation?”
“Primarily? Data that can save lives.” He closes one of his notebooks, meeting my eyes directly. “If we can improve tornado prediction by even three minutes, that's three more minutes for people to reach shelter. It's the difference between a tragedy and a close call.”
It's the right answer—almost too right, like he rehearsed it. But there's a sincerity in his expression that's hard to fake.
“Fine,” I say finally, closing his laptop with a decisive snap. “We have a deal.”
Jonah blinks, as if he can't quite believe I've agreed. “Really?”
“Don't make me change my mind.” I drain the last of my terrible coffee. “My conditions stand. I make the calls in the field.”
“Absolutely,” he nods eagerly, gathering his notebooks. “So, what do we do first?”
I can't help it—I laugh.
“What?” he asks, looking confused and mildly hurt.
“First,” I say, gesturing at his button-down shirt and pressed khakis, “we need to address your wardrobe.”
“My wardrobe?” He glances down. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Everything,” I say, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.