“Not funny,” I say, my voice tighter than I intend. “She's my research partner.”
Lucas's eyebrows shoot up. “Your research partner,” he repeats slowly, like he's testing how the words sound. “Right. Because that's the primary concern here.”
“I'm serious.”
“You're also bright red right now.” He flops backward onto the bed. “You know, for someone so brilliant, you're remarkably bad at self-awareness.”
I turn away, fumbling with the bathroom doorknob. The conversation has taken a direction I can't handle right now, not while I'm this exhausted, this wet, this discombobulated from being pressed against her for forty minutes.
“Enough, Lucas,” I drag a hand through my wet hair and grab my bag. “I'm taking a shower before I commit a felony.”
“Bring me back a tiny motel shampoo,” Lucas calls after me, but I'm already shutting the bathroom door behind me.
The bathroom is barely bigger than a coffin. The moment I'm alone, I lean against the sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. Water drips from my hair, and I look like someone who's been thrown into a washing machine and forgotten.
This can't happen. Not with Lila. She's my research partner—or at least, she might be if I don't screw this up. I can't spend the next who-knows-how-long fantasizing about her while trying to run complex atmospheric models.
I turn on the shower, making the water as cold as I can bear. The shock of it helps, briefly, but the moment my mind drifts again, I'm right back there in that truck with her thigh against mine, her breath catching when my hand?—
I brace one hand against the shower wall and close my eyes. Big mistake.
Immediately, my mind replays the entire night in brutal detail. Lila laughing under her breath. The look she gave me when I agreed to her conditions too fast. Her thigh pressed against mine in the truck. The split second after I touched her accidentally and the sharp inhale she made before either of us pulled away.
And then—because apparently my subconscious hates me—the image of her standing in some motel bathroom next door with damp hair and flushed cheeks slides into my head.
My hand drifts lower despite myself. I'm not proud of this. In fact, I'm actively appalled by it. But my body apparently doesn't care about professional ethics right now, because the second I close my eyes, all I can see is the way she looked when she told me she was going to email me back.
I take myself in hand and let out a breath that fogs against the tile.
This is a terrible idea.
It is, and yet my brain keeps serving me up memories: the way her freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose when lightning flashed, the way she chewed her bottom lip as she considered my proposal, the exact spot where her jeans rode low on her hip when she reached for something in the back of her truck?—
Stop. You’re going to ruin this partnership before it even gets started.
My research partner who nearly gave me a concussion when I pressed my hand to her chest.
I don't stop. The water is loud enough to cover anything, and the bathroom door is locked, and Lucas is on the other side of it, presumably wrapped up in backing up his footage.
My breathing gets heavier. I slide my fist down slowly, bracing myself against the wall with the other hand.
I imagine what her skin might feel like without the barrier of wet clothing between us. The way her lips parted slightly when she said my name with that mix of exasperation and something else I can't name. My grip tightens as I picture her hands running through my hair instead of the water, her voice whispering in my ear instead of?—
“Hey, Jonah!” Lucas's voice cuts through the bathroom door, startling me so badly I nearly slip on the shower floor. “Do you have a phone charger?”
I nearly slip and break my neck, swearing as I try to catch myself. “For the love of God, Lucas?—”
There’s a long pause on the other side of the door. “Then why do you sound so out of breath…” Lucas’s voice trails off. “Are you…”
My face burns so hot I'm surprised steam isn't literally pouring out of my ears. I quickly adjust myself, water cascading over my shoulders as I try to formulate a response that doesn't sound completely incriminating. “You scared me. I almost fell.”
A long silence follows. “You mean your dick fell into your hand?”
I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the shower tile.
Lucas starts laughing through the door. Loudly. “Oh my God, this is incredible. The emotionally constipated weather monk finally snaps because a pretty storm chaser flirted with him.”
“Just grab the charger from my bag!” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. “It's in the side pocket!”
