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car stereo.
    “Oh, I did cue up a few podcasts on my phone. Industry updates—”
    “ Tristan ,” Ravi groaned. This was going to be a long drive. “You don’t want me falling asleep, right? I live, eat, sleep and breathe the gaming industry right now. I don’t need any industry updates. What I need is tunes.”
    “Okay.” Tristan picked up Ravi’s phone as gingerly as he might a grenade. “You don’t have a log-in password?”
    “Disabled it so you could play navigator.” That got a little smile from Tristan, and damn if Ravi didn’t want to do more quasi-thoughtful things just to make him grin.
    The truck cab was quiet while Tristan clicked around on Ravi’s phone. “Anything on here’s okay?”
    “Anything.” Ravi navigated where 405 merged into I-5.
    Another long pause and the opening strains of The Breakfast Club soundtrack filled the cab, the start of Ravi’s ultimate 80s classics playlist.
    “Fabulous choice.” Ravi wasn’t faking enthusiasm this time—he really did love oldies and classic 80s and 90s hits too, with a particular love for movie soundtracks.
    “Yeah?” Tristan offered him a grin so tentative it made Ravi’s stomach wobble. Maybe this journey wasn’t going to be so terrible after all, and that thought—and the whole melting-under-the-force-of-Tristan’s-grin thing—made Ravi way more nervous than the threat of days of boredom had.
    * * *
    Tristan could forgive an awful lot for a love of 80s camp, and Ravi had the soundtrack for almost every movie that Tristan’s nanny Maria had loved. Maria had let him sneak-watch TV with her on late-night cable when he couldn’t sleep.
    He kept humming along and then having to stop himself from singing.
    “Oh, go ahead and sing along.” Ravi laughed, a deep, rich sound that warmed Tristan all the way to his toes. “Either you’re really good at it, or you suck and then I can rejoice that you aren’t all perfect.”
    “I’m not perfect.” Tristan sure as heck didn’t feel perfect.
    “Dude. Come on. I’ve never seen you less than 200 percent prepared—you iron everything, your color-coding system is boss, and you’ve got management convinced you’ll be running the place in another six months.”
    “Really?” Tristan hadn’t realized that Ravi had such a high opinion of him. He’d mainly assumed that he annoyed Ravi. Tristan was too busy feeling overwhelmed at work to really feel confident in the job yet.
    “Really. And I’ll buy you another coffee drink when we stop for gas if you’ll stop whispering along to the song. That halfway shit’s annoying.”
    “We’re expensing all the food,” Tristan reminded him.
    “Yeah, but I’m offering to order for you.” Ravi gave him a quick grin. He so had Tristan’s number.
    “It’s not that I watched all these movies,” Tristan tried to explain.
    “I did.” Another grin. “I’ve got two sisters, but I’m not ashamed to admit I dig this music. Love listening to it while I run.”
    “Your sisters aren’t all about Bollywood movies?”
    Ravi made a face. “Swear to God, I want a Not All Indians T-shirt. My mom loves Bollywood, but my sisters were all about the old 80s cheese and 90s sitcoms.”
    “Sorry.” Tristan didn’t mean to be ignorant, but other than passing contact in college, he didn’t really know any other Indian Americans. Just then the Dirty Dancing theme came on, and feeling bad about stereotyping, Tristan let himself sing along, same as he had with Maria in her little room over the garage. So what if he was terrible. Maybe he could make Ravi laugh and restore some of the unexpected easiness between them.
    Ravi drummed his fingers in time against the steering wheel and shook his head as the song ended. “Perfect pitch. I should have figured. I bet you were in one of those singing groups in college, weren’t you?”
    “Oh no way!” Tristan shuddered. “I think my parents would have revoked my tuition check if I’d expressed a desire to sing on