“Guilty.” Something almost like a smile touches the corners of his eyes. “I graduated eight years before you, so our paths never crossed.”
Huh. So he did look up my file, even down to the date of my graduation.
I wonder what it would’ve been like if we’d met in school and he weren’t my boss squared.
Are you crazy? Who says he’s even attracted to you? He’s just giving you a ride home, followed by a possible job termination.
I moisten my dry lips. “Did you also major in comp sci?”
Did his gaze just fall to my mouth?
“What else?” he asks, the corners of his lips tilting slightly—a definite smile, and a panty-wetting one at that.
“History,” I blurt—and thank goodness don’t add, “That would be easy for you, since you lived it.”
His lips stretch into a full-blown smile. “No, I’ve been into programming forever. My older brother got me into it.” He tilts his head. “How about you? Why did you choose that as your major?”
“It was an act of rebellion at first,” I admit. “My parents are hippie-artsy types. They hoped I’d major in something like music, photography, or film—nothing practical, like computer science.”
He arches an eyebrow. “There are other practical disciplines out there.”
“Sure. I took a bunch of introductory STEM courses first, but something about programming appealed to me. Also, an asshole in that class didn’t think I, a girl, could do it—which spurred me on.”
At the mention of the asshole, the Impaler frowns deeply. Maybe it wasn’t HR behind the women-to-men ratio, after all?
“The irony is,” I continue, “writing code feels like that creative process that my parents yammer about all the time.”
The frown relaxes. “Programming can be as much art as science.”
I smile. “Just don’t tell my parents that.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with mock seriousness. “Let them suffer knowing their daughter got herself a degree that will virtually guarantee she’s always got a well-paying job, and one that will likely intellectually stimulate her as well. The horror.”
My smile widens. “What did you like about computer science when you tried it?”
He adjusts his glasses again. “I liked the logic and certainty of it. In other sciences, there are a lot of theories which may or may not be the ultimate truth. In ours, most theories have proofs, like in math. I also like the feeling of control when I code. With computers being as prevalent as they are, not knowing how to program, or at least how it all works, is a little like not knowing how to read and—”
His phone rings, distracting us both, and I realize I was listening openmouthed—in part because I got drawn in by the passion in his voice. If being a super-rich company owner ever gets boring, he can always do inspirational speaking on the side.
He glances at the screen of his phone but doesn’t pick up. “Where was I?”
Crap. Did he just ignore something important because of me? “It’s fine,” I say. “You should take that.”
He pockets the phone. “You said your parents are into art. What do they do for a living?”
His phone rings again.
He ignores it, his gaze trained expectantly on me.
Would it be rude if I insist that he pick that up and therefore ignore the question?
Sensing my reluctance, he takes out the phone and pointedly silences it.
“Mom is an opera singer,” I say after the phone disappears into his pocket again. “Dad’s a painter.”
He looks fascinated. “Does she perform somewhere, and does he have exhibits?”
“Mom mostly teaches others, but Dad did finally get famous enough to be able to sell his works. That happened just as I was graduating from college. When I was growing up, our income was pretty low—full-ride financial aid for college kind of low.”
“I also got that,” he says to my surprise. “When we arrived in this country, we didn’t have an income at all.”
Ah, yes, of course. Immigrant background. “Your parents must be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“Take it for granted, more like.” He frowns again. “I think they feel like they gave up their lives back in Russia for their kids, so their standards for what’s considered a worthy accomplishment are out of control.”
“Well, at least they didn’t name you Fanny when your last name is Pack,” I say, eager to rid him of that frown. “As you can imagine, I was the butt of a lot of jokes. Pun intended.”
My evil plan works. Another smile touches the corners of his eyes. “I think I would prefer parents with a sense of humor—even if it meant I’d end up named after an accessory.”
“That’s because you don’t know my parents. You know how teens are embarrassed by their parents? I’ve felt that way my whole life. They’re completely inappropriate. For example, they had ‘the birds and the bees’ talk with me when I was five—with diagrams and everything.”
Another real smile graces his lips. “Better than never—as was the case with mine.”
I want to trace the curve of those sexy lips with my finger. No, stop it, perv. Boss squared, remember? With effort, I return my focus to the conversation at hand. “Still, you’ve never been to middle school with my name,” I say.
He’s unfazed. “My last name, Chortsky, means ‘from a chort’—which is Russian for ‘demon.’ Chort is also a popular curse word, kind of like ‘damn.’”
Huh. So it’s official, he is evil. Still, poor guy. I picture a little boy with that name, being teased unmercifully. “At least your parents didn’t choose that name,” I say. “They suffered with it too.”
He shrugs. “They could’ve changed it.”
“Fine, you win—if it’s a win to have parents worse than mine.” I cock my head. “What do they do?”
“Right now, they own a restaurant on Brighton Beach. In Russia, though, my father was a surgeon and my mother an architect.”
Before I can ask anything else, the limo comes to a stop.
I glance out the window.
Wow. I didn’t even notice the ride home.
“Go rest,” he says, his commanding tone returning and the earlier smile gone without a trace.
I fight the urge to ask about testing again. Something tells me it wouldn’t be welcome at this juncture.
“Bye,” I say as I open the limo door.
“Until later, Ms. Pack.” He pauses, then adds gently, “By the way… you might want to check on your eyebrow.”
Chapter Nine
I burst into my bathroom and stare in the mirror.
Of course. The eyebrow I drew earlier is barely a shadow of itself, and that mixture of curious, suspicious, and skeptical expressions is on my face in full force.
Ugh. Could this day have gone any worse?
The entire time I was talking to him, he must’ve been staring at that eyebrow. No wonder there were some smiles. He must’ve been dying of laughter inside.
I take out Precious and order an indelible eyebrow pencil, eyebrow powder, and temporary eyebrow tattoos. I even splurge on stick-on human hair eyebrow wigs in the hopes that one of these things will let me look human again.