Page 5 of Whirlwind

Jake chuckles. “I’ll let you go then.”

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start walking toward campus parking, my steps hurried. “I love you, Jake.”

“I love you, too. And please don’t die. I need my bestie-slash-cousin in my life.”

I laugh as my eyes look to the sky again, a sky that’s turning more ominous with steely clouds that remind me of a smoldering gray monster getting ready to hunt. Where I am is sunny, a beautiful May day turning into evening, but my eyes won’t leave the swirling storm cell in the distance.

“I promise I won’t die. Cross my heart.” Even though he can’t see it, I make an X over my chest to complete our little tradition, one we’ve had since we were kids. If we make a promise we intend to keep, we have to do it.

“Good.”

After we say our goodbyes, I continue walking, my pace picking up as I open my radar app on my phone. Once I’m in my car, if I drive fast, I think I can make it. Right now, the conditions aren’t exactly right for a tornado, but I’ll still get some amazing pictures. Lightning strikes are always a bestseller, especially when they’re across the open plains.

I zoom in closer on the storm as I consider which route to take. My mind is so consumed with my thoughts that I don’t see another person until I’m taking a direct hit to my side. I fall like I’ve been sacked, my phone flying from my hands as I cry out, ass hitting the concrete.

“Shit! I’m so sorry, Finley,” a Southern male voice drawls.

I blink a few times, pain radiating from my butt as I register that whoever hit me like a linebacker knows my name. I suck in a breath and look up as Professor West kneels in front of me, his stupidly attractive bearded face invading my vision.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The full-bodied timbre of his voice soothes the ache I’m feeling in my butt, but it also makes my already racing heart thump like I’m running a marathon. My palms sweat as I look up into his pale green eyes. “I’m okay.”

He studies me up and down, concern and apology etched on his features. “Are you sure? I ran into you really hard.”

I shut my eyes, still regaining my bearings. Not because of the hit, but because he’s so close to me I can smell his cologne. Or maybe it’s the way he smells? Like sandalwood and citrus: woodsy and crisp.

“Finley?” he asks again as I open my eyes. “I’m so sorry—I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“That makes two of us,” I mutter under my breath.

With my jaw clenched to avoid smelling Ryker, I move to get up. Sadly for me, the weight of my backpack has me falling backward.

“Whoa there, just sit for a minute,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. He thinks I fell back because I’m injured, not because I’m carrying too many books in my bag along with my laptop—which, thank god, I put in a padded case.

I swallow, the heat from his hand not helping to settle the butterflies in my stomach at him being so close.

“I’m fine, really.” I try to get up again, but his handgrips me firm.

“Track my finger.” He holds up his pointer finger from his other hand.

I huff a small laugh. “I’m fine, Ryker—Professor West.”

The slipup has his pupils widening slightly in surprise, but he quickly follows it up with a panty-dropping smirk. The action has my cheeks turning red, just like that smile of his always has me doing. Jeez Louise, how am I going to survive storm chasing with him if I can’t be this close without acting like an idiot? Jake’s right—Idoneed to be careful.

“Just follow my finger.” His voice is amused but edged with the type of command that would make anyone stop and listen. It’s why he makes a good professor and team leader.

With a sigh of acquiescence, I do as he asks. My eyes follow the digit back and forth and up and down until he’s satisfied.

“I think you’re concussion free.” He stands, but instead of holding out his hand, he moves behind me. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he pulls at the straps of my backpack and slides them from my arms.

When he stands to his full height again—which must be at least six feet, probably more—he frowns down at me.

“What’s in here, bricks?”

“Close enough,” I mumble.

He chuckles and moves back to my front, backpack slung over his shoulder as he holds out his hand. I take the offered help, my palm sliding into his. The hair on my arms stands on end, and I try to ignore the zinging sensation zipping through my body. It’s one I feel whenever our skin happens to touch—which isn’t often, but I remember all the times it has.

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