“Excuse me?” he finally manages.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I shouldn’t. We’re colleagues. This is professional. I’ve spent exactly two days in this man’s company, and already I’m making inappropriate sex toy jokes like we’re old drinking buddies instead of temporaryresearch partners. But there’s something about the way his face just shut down completely that makes my brain keep going despite my better judgment.
“I said?—”
“I heard what you said,” he interrupts, voice higher than usual. “I just...I’m processing the fact that you said it.”
The absolute mortification on his face is worth every ounce of my dignity. His ears have gone bright pink. That blush is crawling all the way down his neck.
“Come on,” I say, grinning despite myself. “You can’t tell me the great Dr. Jonah Reed, who namedrops Supreme Court cases involving adult film stars, has never heard of a rabbit vibrator.”
His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “You aren’t going to let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
But even I can only torture a man so long before my conscience kicks in. And honestly, the way he’s looking at me right now—like his entire understanding of reality just got updated with a patch he didn’t download—it’s getting hard to hold the joke together without feeling like a genuine asshole.
Max lets out a loud snore from the backseat, and Jonah flinches.
Okay, Lila. Dial it back. You’ve had your fun.
“All right, all right,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m done. I promise.” I hold up both hands in surrender while keeping one eye on the road. “Seriously. I’ll stop.”
He stares at me for another beat, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“No rabbit jokes,” I add. “No vibrator jokes. No innuendos of any kind. You have my word.”
His shoulders drop about half an inch. The blush hasn’t gone anywhere, but the panic is receding.
“What were you going to ask me?” I say, softer this time. “Before I derailed everything with rabbit-related trauma?”
He starts to open his mouth before he snaps it closed again.
“Are you going to ask that question or what?”
“I am trying to figure out how to phrase it without sounding crass or stepping over a boundary.”
“You don’t need to consult your mental committee about it. Just ask me.”
He lets out a sigh before finally asking, “How did your father pass?”
I suck in a deep breath, grip tightening on the wheel. Part of me wants to shut this down with a joke, change the subject. Part of me has been waiting for someone to ask. “He died doing what he loved.” The words come out automatic, rehearsed. True and not true at the same time. “He died in the El Reno outbreak.”
Max pushes his nose against my elbow. I give him a quick scratch, grateful for the distraction from Jonah's too-perceptive gaze.
“The official report said driver error,” I continue, hating how my words waver. “That he panicked, took a wrong turn. But Dad never panicked. Not once in thirty years of chasing. The accident report was wrong.”
“You don’t believe the report.” Jonah replies. It isn’t a question.
“I was on the phone with him when it happened.” The memory rushes back—Dad’s voice, calm even at the end. The roar of the wind swallowing his last words. “He knew exactly where he was. The tornado shouldn’t have turned like that.”
Jonah's quiet for a long moment. “Is that why you're interested in my research? The prediction algorithms?”
“Partly.” I ease off the gas as we approach a line of traffic. “If Dad had better models, better prediction tools, maybe he'd survived.”
“I'm sorry about your father,” Jonah says after a long moment. Not pitying, just understanding.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak immediately. This is why I don't talk about Dad with people. It's been three years, and the wound still feels raw, like it happened yesterday.
