“It is.”
“And I assume you’ll be able to cite your resources on that?”
“Absolutely.”
He follows me around the passenger side of the SUV and opens the door for me, helping me inside. It’s a gesture that’s unexpectedly gentlemanly. Almost sweet.
Which I guess shouldn’t surprise me since Miller is thoughtful.
A few minutes later, we’re on the road. My apartment is on the west side of town, not far from the highway that will take us out to Saddle Creek, so at least there’s no downtown traffic to navigate.
After a few minutes of driving in silence, he nods toward the radio. “You can turn on music if you want.”
I grin and hold out my hand. “I do want.”
He glances at my outstretched hand. “What?”
“You think I’m going to let this opportunity slip out of my hands?”
“What opportunity?”
“To check out your Spotify list.”
“What if I don’t have a Spotify list?”
“What?” I shoot him a disbelieving look, but he just shrugs. “Everybody has a Spotify list.”
Another shrug. “I don’t.”
“Okay, then. Your Apple playlist. Or Amazon or whatever streaming service you use.”
“I don’t use a streaming service.”
“Whaaatttt?” I brace my palm on the dashboard in a show of mock surprise. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those weirdos who only listen to podcasts and talk radio.” I clasp my hands in prayer. “Please don’t be a Joe Rogan superfan. Please! If you are, lie to me.”
“If I was a Joe Rogan superfan, I think you would have noticed by now.” He chuckles, but hands over his phone. “But you’re welcome to check out my podcast library if you’re truly worried.”
Greedily, I take his phone, holding it at eye level toward him. “Smile for the biometrics!”
But he shakes his head. “I don’t use biometrics. But my passcode is eight-five-seven-five.”
I chuckle with disapproval. “No biometrics, but you just hand over your passcode? Isn’t that a little too trusting?”
“No. I trustyouwith my passcode. Biometrics would be trusting anyone with my phone and likeness of me.” He slants me a look. “We work in the same field. You know this as well as I do.”
“Sure, for my work phone.” I shrug. “I guess I just don’t think about there being anything of interest on my personal phone.”
He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again.
There’s a beat where—I swear to God—we both think of the things some people keep on their phones. Salacious photos and sexting and who knows what else.
Personally, I have nothing like that on my phone. Which seems unspeakably naïve and childish. The worst I have on my phone are some spicy alien romance novels in my Kindle library.
If Miller has secrets on his phone (a.k.a. dick pics or sexting), I don’t think I want to know. Praying I don’t find anything I don’t want to see, I look down at the phone in my hand to type in the code.
“A more likely story is that you trust that I’ll forget your passcode immediately.” I waggle the phone. “Which I’ve already done.”
He chuckles. “Eighty-five. The year my parents got engaged. Seventy-five. Because that’s the year America released ‘Sister Golden Hair.’”
