I hang up and toss the phone onto the bed, then head for the shower. The bathroom is typical motel fare, but the water pressure is surprisingly good, and I stand under the hot spray longer than necessary, trying to wash away yesterday's close call. My muscles ache from the tension of the chase, the adrenaline crash afterward. I roll my shoulders under the water.
Water cascades down my body, washing away the mud and grime from yesterday's chase, but I can't seem to rinse away the memory of being crammed in the truck between Lucas and Jonah. The feeling of Jonah's lean body pressed against mine, that moment when we hit a bump and his hand accidentally brushed against my breast.
I close my eyes as heat pools low in my belly, completely separate from the shower's temperature.
“Jesus, Lila,” I mutter to myself, but my hand drifts lower across my stomach anyway.
I think about the way his blue eyes had widened when I told him I was going to email him back. How his voice had gone all breathy with excitement when explaining his algorithms. His long fingers tapping against his leg, the way he'd pushed his rain-soaked hair back from his face.
My fingers slip between my thighs, sliding through my wet folds. I lean against the shower wall, imagining his hand there instead of mine. The way he'd looked at me like a man seeing a woman for the first time.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I circle my clit, imagining it's Jonah's finger tracing slow, deliberate circles. His touch would be methodical, I bet. Analytical. He'd catalog my reactions like data points, learning what makes my breath catch.
I slide one finger inside myself. My breath catches as I picture his face, that serious academic expression he wears like armor, breaking into something raw when he sees me coming apart for him.
“Shit,” I whisper, adding another finger and pumping faster. My hips move against my hand, chasing the release that builds like a thunderhead on the horizon.
I shouldn't be doing this. Not when we have to work together. Not when I need to focus on the research, but my body doesn't care about professionalism or propriety. It only wants.
The water pounds against my back as I bring myself to the edge. I bite my lip to keep quiet, imagining it's Jonah's teeth instead. With a final stroke, I come with a shudder, my legs trembling beneath me as pleasure crashes through me like a downdraft.
When I open my eyes, I'm slumped against the shower wall, panting. Reality comes rushing back in with the sound of the water splashing around me.
“Way to stay professional, Lila,” I mutter to myself, pushing away from the wall and turning off the shower. I wrap myself in a thin motel towel and pad across the room to my duffel bag.
As I dress—my lucky red flannel over a black band tee, worn jeans, and sturdy boots—I mentally prepare myself for the meeting ahead. This is business, not pleasure. This collaboration is a means to an end. A way to make my work more impactful, to save lives with a better warning system. Right?
I slip into my boots while I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and check my reflection one more time. The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of yesterday's close call better than words could. I grab my bag, double-check that I have the motel keycard, and head out the door.
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 thismeeting, 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.
