Page 11 of Whirlwind

I flush for what feels like the millionth time. “Thanks, I love doing it.” The words feel funny on my tongue, but his smile settles me a little.

“I can tell. You’ve captured how much you love it in those photos.”

I smile back at him, and for a few moments, we stare at each other. I lick my now dry lips, and Ryker’s gaze drops to my mouth. He mirrors my action, but when his tongue connects with his lips, he bristles, and his jaw tenses beneath his well-trimmed scruff.

“Did you have a question or something I could help you with?” he asks.

For a moment, I’m confused, but then I remember I came here during office hours. “Oh.” I laugh awkwardly. “Yes, I did. Sorry, the tornado distracted me.”

His shoulders ease a bit, and he leans back in his chair, transforming into the Professor West I’ve come to know from class. Professional yet relaxed. “Tornadoes can be distracting.”

So can professors, I think to myself. I reach down to my backpack, take out some data from our class the other day, and lay it on his desk.

“I’d love your opinion on something I noticed within the March Glen EF4 data that I couldn’t see in your team’s findings.”

He cocks his head to the side and smirks. “Are you saying we missed something, Ms. Buckley?”

My belly does a flip-flop at my formal name, and before I can analyze if that was flirting or friendly teasing, I smirk back. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

He steeples his fingers in front of him. “Then lay it on me.”

Chapter five

Ryker

PRESENT DAY

“Look at that beauty,”I whistle as we crest over the top of a hill.

“Incredible,” she says, voice breathless in her amazement. “It’s a healthy supercell. Impressive wall cloud.”

My pulse spikes as Finley accelerates, my eyes taking in every aspect of the storm we’re approaching. She’s right, of course—the supercell is healthy. And the wall cloud, a dark, low-hanging section of clouds underneath the thunderstorm, makes it appear as if the sky is sinking.

“Does it ever get old?” she asks.

I turn my gaze back to her and study her profile—silky hair blowing in the wind from the open windows, round face, apple-shaped cheeks that are pink from a tiny bit of blush. “Chasing?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it get old for you?” I counter.

“No. But I haven’t been doing this for long.”

I smirk. “Are you saying I’m old?”

Finley grips the steering wheel. “No, that’s not what I meant. I—”

I chuckle and cut her off. “I was kidding.” When her grip relaxes, I continue. “Storms are always different. One is never the same as the other. They’re unpredictable, wild, and still so much of them are a mystery. So no, they never get old—because they’re always new.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “I like that.”

Muggy wind whips through the cab of the car, and I place my hand on her shoulder in excitement. “We hit warm air. Look at that inflow band.”

The buzzing energy between us ratchets up, and I squeeze her shoulder a little tighter, forgetting that I shouldn’t be touching her.

“You really think a tornado will touch down?” she asks. “When I looked at the radar earlier, I wasn’t sure.”

I take my hand from her shoulder and point up at the supercell. “Look at this storm, and tell me what you think.”

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