Nolan asked, “You do all this alone? I’d imagined a company as successful as RipeBox would have an army of scientists.”
To his surprise, Fynn flushed red across his cheekbones. “Well, there’s a full scientific staff, of course. I direct their research and development, once an idea pans out for me. They replicate my data and work on the practical equipment design. There are two large labs on either side of the main hallway.” He waved toward the door. “Back when we put the original product through beta testing, we had one common lab, but when we moved into this building, I asked for my own space. I find, well, that I think better without background interactions.”
“Nothing wrong with liking your privacy,” Nolan said. “Lots of folks do. I worked for one client who only communicated via written notes passed through their butler.”
“I’m not that bad,” Fynn said. “But they all seemed to want background music playing and there was always someone with life stuff to discuss. I don’t multitask well.”
“I don’t think you’re bad at all,” Nolan commented, driven by some unprofessional impulse.
Sure enough, color chased across Fynn’s face.
A thirty-year-old who blushed. Innocence at any age had never been Nolan’s type. He liked twinks, sure, but he liked them enthusiastic and skilled. He enjoyed guys who knew what they wanted and were on the same page about getting it. Still, Fynn looked good with his pretty lips parted and some color emphasizing his high cheekbones. His eyes behind those rectangular lenses held an amber glow in their brown— Oh, no, you don’t. Nolan mentally smacked down his libido. It’d been three weeks since he’d last hooked up with anyone, which apparently was long enough for his dick to forget the cardinal rule of the profession: don’t fuck your primary.
Good thing Fynn really wasn’t his type.