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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.
