“Technically, we’ll just be passing through north Texas,” I explain, taking far too much delight in his dismay. “But yeah, that’s the route.”
He groans and flops back in his chair. “I didn’t realize people still did the whole Route 66 thing.”
“People like you don’t,” I say, not bothering to suppress my eye roll this time.
He shoots me a quizzical look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Not gonna lie. I rather enjoy seeing him ruffled for once.
“It means that rich workaholics who have more money than God and who are too busy conquering the universe to take lengthy vacations don’t travel Route 66.”
Pride fills my chest, and I give myself a mental high-five for coming up with a witty reply. Banter has never been my strong suit. I’m always tangled up in my thoughts, snappy replies coming too late, if at all.
“For good reason,” he deadpans. “I just didn’t think Cadillac Ranch would be your idea of a good time. Not to mention your followers.”
My followers?
As if reading my mind, he continues. “You want to be an influencer, right?”
“You really want to have this conversation again?”
“So you need relatable content to attract followers and brand sponsors,” he continues, ignoring my sarcasm.
“Trust me. I’m relatable.”
Unlucky in love? Check.
Broke as hell and buried in student loan debt? Check.
Crashing on my grandmother’s spare mobile bed rent free? Check. Check. Check.
“Relatable isn’t enough. To really hook your audience, you need to play to their aspirations.”
I huff out a breath. “Are you seriously about to mansplain social media marketing to me through your rose-colored, sexy-billionaire glasses?”
Dios mío. I just called Miles sexy. To. His. Face.
“No mansplaining here.” He throws up his hands in self-defense, seemingly oblivious to my admission. “But I am the head of marketing at Triada, and I’ve picked up a thing or two along the way. Why not let me help you?”
I shoot him a dubious look.
Don’t get me wrong. Miles is brilliant. Triada wouldn’t be the success it is if he didn’t know his business. But I’m pretty sure his current objective—convincing me to come back to work for him—is at direct odds with the success of my travel-influencer status.
“Come on. Tell me about your brand.” A slow grin spreads over his face. “Unless you’d rather talk about how attractive you find me?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I silently curse my runaway mouth.
“What was the phrase you used?” He makes a show of tapping his chin thoughtfully, though the words are undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue. With my luck, they’re probably seared into his brain for all eternity. The better to whip them out at the most inconvenient times. “Oh, right. Sexy billionaire. It does have a nice ring to it. Not as clever as Hartthrob, but there’s something to be said for directness, don’t you think?”
“So Savvy Traveler,” I say through gritted teeth, “is geared toward hip, young travel enthusiasts on a shoestring budget.”
Or, you know, recently unemployed.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I open my mouth to respond, but a gust of wind whips across the interstate, sending us careening onto the shoulder.
Sweet Jesus.
