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“11 years.”
“What?”
“That’s the gap between us.”
He smirks. “Am I allowed to have a drink with a woman 11 years younger than me?”
He sounds amused again. My cheeks are so red they might stay that way permanently, but I refuse to be anything other than cool and collected around James.
I shrug. “It’s just a drink, right? I didn’t mean to insinuate that we’re—”
He cuts me off. “You didn’t. Anyway, you told me I wasn’t your type earlier, remember?”
I nearly choke. “Well, my type has been pretty hit-and-miss lately.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
There’s an authoritative edge to his tone when he asks that question—or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
“Soon to be ex, actually.”
“Poor guy.”
He doesn’t sound the least bit empathetic.
“Maybe he deserves it,” I point out.
“Maybe.”
I look away and change the subject. “So, you make heart attack watches…is that what you used to tell people you wanted to do when you grew up?”
He sighs like my question just weighed him down. I glance back to find him staring down at his empty glass.
“It’s just one part of my company…a means to an end.”
“For what?”
He glances up at me from beneath his brows. “I started BioWear when I graduated from college, when I was…well, a bit more idealistic. I wanted to help people who really needed it, not just rich Americans. I wanted to combat neglected tropical diseases.”
I laugh. “Okay, turn around—let me see if there’s a cape hanging off that suit.”
He doesn’t laugh with me. “I’m boring you. Let’s talk about something else.”
I’ve offended him.
I reach out and touch his shoulder. It’s an intimate act between friends, but we aren’t friends—we hardly know each other. We both freeze, and maybe I’ve gone too far, presumed too much. I yank my hand away and face the bar. It’s an awkward couple of seconds, made worse by the fact that he doesn’t rush to speak first.
“You can tell me about it if you want,” I offer quietly. “I’d like to know more.”
He doesn’t continue right away. He’s like a turtle coming out of his shell. Maybe he doesn’t open up to many people like this, or maybe he thinks I really am bored, but in truth, this man could read off his junk mail folder and I’d be listening with bated breath.
“During my senior year of college, I took a global health seminar as a blow-off class. The professor didn’t give tests, everyone knew it, so twice a week, I sat in the back row, bored and distracted while most of my friends didn’t even bother showing up. I don’t remember what most of the semester focused on, but one day, we had a guest lecturer, a project coordinator for Doctors Without Borders. She stood at the front of the class and flipped through a quick PowerPoint. Each slide presented some form of technology that could drastically impact the lives of people in third world countries—water filtration systems, solar panels, that sort of thing. At the end of it, she challenged us to be the next wave of inventors.”
“And you listened.”
He meets my gaze. “I guess so.”
“So what’s your focus?”
He answers quickly. “Mosquitos.”
“Mosquitos?”
“They’re the number one carrier of tropical diseases like malaria.”
I’ve listened to enough NPR news hours to realize that’s true, but short of eradicating the whole species, there’s not much that can be done. Unless…
“So you want to buy a bunch of mosquito nets?”
He smiles. “The first piece of wearable tech I developed was a shirt—the BioShield.”
“Sounds like something Iron Man would wear. What does it do?”
“It monitors the resting electric potential of human skin. The second a mosquito lands, the nanoprocessors in the device feel it. Before the mosquito can bite, an imperceptible electrical impulse is sent along the wearer’s epidermis, just enough to deter the mosquito.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“It is. In testing, the prototype reduced the transmission of mosquito-born diseases by 98%.”
“Have you guys started mass-producing it yet?”
He laughs. “To date, there have been three versions made. Each one cost about a million dollars.”
I’d do a spit-take if my Jack and Coke weren’t empty.
“I guess it’s pretty hard to market in sub-Saharan Africa at that price.”
“Exactly.”
He stares down at his glass.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask, enjoying the fact that he’s talking to me as if I’m an equal, not just some cabana girl.
“I’ve run the numbers, and with enough time and ingenuity, that number can be reduced to about $200 a shirt. So, while it won’t ever be profitable…”
“It would be affordable,” I finish, and he nods. “From a charity perspective. So your watch…it funds that project?”
He taps his glass on the bar twice in the affirmative. “Along with a few of our other mass-market consumer items.”
“You know you could just kick back and buy a yacht or something, right?” I laugh.
“Yeah, but the upkeep on those things is ridiculous. It’s better to rent, even if you have to give up that new yacht smell.”
