“I'm hanging up now,” I mutter, watching Max and his staring contest with the rabbit. I pat his head, reminding him that I am, in fact, there next to him.
“No, wait! I'm sorry, I'm just—I've never heard you sound like this about someone since Claire. Not even Patricia from the Atmospheric Sciences conference.”
I wince at the memory. Patricia had been a fellow researcher with a passion for cloud formations and a tendency to quote obscure meteorological journals during dinner. Lucas had been convinced we were perfect for each other. He’d even gone so far as to invite her to our shared motel room to discuss data, and promptly bailed the second she arrived. Turns out, Patricia was not interested in me, but had a huge crush on Lucas. She left as soon as she realized he wasn’t there.
Max nips at my hand, apparently done with his morning business. I follow his lead back toward the motel, the golden retriever trotting contentedly ahead of me like he owns the place. He leads me over to the vending machine and sits. I look at the selection and punch in the numbers for something for Lila before we resume our walk back.
“So what's the plan?” Lucas asks, pulling me back to our conversation.
“The plan is to do our jobs.”
“That’s so boring.”
“You live your life how you want, and leave me to mine.”
“Oh, don’t get like that. Relax, man.” A muffled voice comes through Lucas’s side of the call. “Look, I got to run. Morning broadcast starts in twenty. But keep me posted, okay? And maybe try using your heart instead of your brain for once.”
I hang up just as Max and I reach the door to our room. I hesitate, my hand on the handle, suddenly aware of what waits on the other side.
Lila and I have entered some new territory—one without maps or predictive models.
As I push the door open, the first thing I notice is the empty bed. The sheets are rumpled where Lila was sleeping, but she's not there. Then I hear the shower running, a soft humming barely audible over the sound of water.
Max trots into the room ahead of me, immediately jumping onto the bed and making himself comfortable in the warm spot Lila left behind. I check my watch. It's early for her to be up, especially given her injury and medication.
I set about making coffee with the cheap in-room coffee maker, knowing Lila will need the caffeine regardless of how terrible it tastes. As the machine gurgles to life, I pull out my laptop to check the latest weather data. The system we're tracking has moved east overnight, but another cell is developing to the northwest. Perfect conditions for more data collection.
The bathroom door opens in a rush of steam, and every coherent thought immediately leaves my body.
The bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam. Lila steps out with her damp hair wrapped in a towel, wearing nothing but the oversized t-shirt she slept in last night. It hangs off one shoulder because of the sling on her injured arm, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone and just enough skin to make my pulse stumble hard in my chest.
And then there are her legs. Bare. Long. Still faintly damp from the shower as she moves across the motel room toward me. The shirt barely skims the tops of her thighs, and my brain instantly supplies several deeply inappropriate thoughts about wrapping those legs around my waist.
Which would already be a problem without the added complication of her looking soft and sleepy and completely comfortable walking around half-dressed in front of me.
She catches me staring immediately, of course. A slow smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “ You okay there, Professor?”
“I'm finding it genuinely difficult to look anywhere else,” I say, before the more sensible part of my brain can weigh in.
A faint flush crosses her cheeks, but she looks more pleased than embarrassed as she takes a step toward me.
“You know,” she says lightly, “most people at least try to pretend they’re respectful.”
“I am being respectful.” My eyes drift helplessly down her legs again. “Respectfully struggling.”
The laugh doesn't help. Neither does the scent of my own soap on her skin, which I'm now deeply regretting leaving within her reach because there’s a primal part of me that is happy she smells like my soap. Happy that she carries my scent. I look back at her legs and then immediately at the middle distance somewhere past her left shoulder. She catches it anyway.
“You're staring.”
“I'm aware.”
“Anything interesting down there?”
“Lila.”
“What?” The innocence in her voice is completely unconvincing.
“I made coffee.” I gesture vaguely toward the machine, where the carafe sits steaming—a small, practical altar to self-control.
