Good freaking question.
“I— My college roommate liked to one-up guys who tried to pick her up with stupid human tricks.”
Now it’s Miles’s turn to blush. The tips of his ears turn red, and it’s actually kind of sweet.
“Is this how you woo all your dates?” I tease, using the edge of my spoon to cut a piece off the banana. Might as well make the most of his embarrassment. I doubt the opportunity will present itself again, since I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve seen Miles blush. “Rumor has it, people who can tie a cherry stem with their tongue are good kissers.”
“Since when do you put stock in rumors?” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or did you bring it up because you want to test the theory?”
Yes.
No.
Hell, I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’m saying anymore.
I only know that I’m supposed to be squashing my feelings for Miles—a mission that, at this very moment, is backfiring spectacularly.
“I hardly think we need to test the theory.” I pop the banana into my mouth, forcing myself to chew. “Based on your reputation, I imagine you’re an expert on the subject.”
Hartthrob.
I can’t seem to force the word past my lips, but I don’t have to because Miles says it for me.
“Hartthrob is a stupid nickname, and it shows an impressive lack of creativity.” He huffs out a breath and buries his spoon in the chocolate ice cream. “It’s no wonder journalism languishes while tech thrives.”
I leap on the subject change.
“How did you get into FinTech, anyway?” I ask, licking chocolate syrup from my spoon. “It just seems so…boring.”
He laughs quietly. “I told my brothers the same thing when we started out. I wanted to develop mindless gaming apps that would rake in the advertising dollars, but Nick insisted I was being shortsighted.”
Shocker. The eldest Hart brother isn’t what you’d call warm and cuddly.
“Nick was right, of course. The proof was all around us.”
“How do you mean?” Miles has never talked about his past, and I lean toward him, eager to drink in every detail.
“My brothers and I had to bust our asses to scrape together the money for college. We were always hustling and taking one-off jobs that paid cash, something our buddies were often lacking. Every time we had to pitch in for beer or pizza, people were asking us to spot them.”
“And never paying you back?”
“It wasn’t a big deal.” He shrugs. “I didn’t care about the money.”
Because even when he was struggling himself, he was too generous to consider that his friends were taking advantage of him.
Typical Miles.
“Anyway, Nick saw an opportunity, and we acted on it. Instant cash transfers. Beck wrote the code, we tested it, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
I doubt it was as simple as he’s making it out to be, but I don’t push. It’s more than he’s ever shared before, and for the first time, I feel like he’s letting me in.
Like he’s letting me peek behind the curtain.
We chat about the awful jobs we worked in college as we finish the banana split, and by the time we’re finished, I’m stuffed. It’s also possible I’m in sugar shock, which is probably why I lean in close to Miles and snap a selfie of us as I announce, “Ice cream for breakfast is #lifegoals.”
“Yeah, if you want to develop diabetes.”
“Dios mío. Do you need some fries for all that salt?”
