Page 40 of Phishing for Love
I raise my eyebrows. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m very comfortable, thanks.”
“Pity it won’t last,” I reply, laying down the gauntlet. “So how many password tries do you want?”
“I only need one.”
I wag a finger at him. “Your cockiness will be your downfall.”
“You’re right,” he says humbly. “How many will you give me?”
“How about three tries?” I offer magnanimously.
“Three is very generous,” he replies. “Thank you.”
I tap my fingers on my knee while I study his carefully impassive side profile. Why do I suspect he’s secretly laughing at me?
My laptop screen goes dark and then the log-in screen displays. Aaron rests his fingers on the keyboard while he staressilently at the little box where the password needs to be entered. For nearly a minute, he doesn’t move or say anything.
A surge of elation sweeps through me. He can’t think of anything.
I start humming Queen’sWe Are the Champions.
“Aren’t you celebrating a little prematurely?” he asks.
“Only one of us suffers from premature problems,” I retort, responding with the first words that come to mind. Admittedly, this habit of mine doesn’t always work in my favor.
Aaron slants me a sideways glance. “Just so you know, that’s never been a problem of mine.”
His slight playfulness catches me off guard. Recovering, I shrug. “Just preparing you for defeat.”
He smirks. “We’ll see.”
Leaning back in my chair, Aaron takes his time as his eyes perform a slow sweep of my desk, absorbing whatever he thinks is important. There’s a framed photo of my parents in front of a huge chocolate cake to celebrate my mom’s fortieth birthday. In the corner of my desk is a potted plant I take pains to diligently water every third day and a snow globe from my trip to Italy two years ago.
His gaze cuts to my cubicle walls, drifting over the inspirational quotes I’ve pinned up, all the photos of my family in various holiday spots, the pictures of Sofia, Kenzie, and me partying it up.
He flicks me a look.
I flick him a smile.
Aaron thinks he’s smart, but he consistently underestimates me.
Resting his hands on his flat stomach, he swivels in his chair to face me. “I need to ask you some questions.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
“Because this is how hackers operate,” he says casually. “They comb through your personal info online. Some of them will even go through your trash.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross.”
“Yep.”
“Okay, ask away.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Tacos.”
