Page 16 of Hacking the Holidays
Rose’s eyes widened with delighted disbelief. “I thoughtI was the only one! I’ve had full conversations with my laptop about its attitude problems.”
We shared a laugh and then a look of dawning comprehension—the relief of two people realizing they weren’t the only ones living in their particular corner of weirdness.
“Wait a minute,…” I studied her face, a new realization hitting me like a delayed system update. “You’re talking to me right now like it’s no big deal at all. Without any of the visible signs of panic you had earlier.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one surprised by that.” Rose tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression thoughtful. “I really don’t know what to make of it, to be honest. Maybe you’re less terrifying than most people.”
“That is possibly the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I joked.
A crazy idea crystallized in my head as Rose smiled. She thrived in our conversation because we communicated on the same logical frequency. What if I could replicate that feeling for her with carefully chosen people and situations? It wasn’t like I hadn’t done this before—I’d spent years connecting shy volunteers with the right projects, pairing introverted book club members with compatible discussion partners, even introducing my reclusive neighbor to the community garden group where his botanical knowledge made him an instant hit.
Rose was brilliant and infinitely more interesting than she gave herself credit for. Giving her a little nudge in the right direction and helping her see that wasn’t manipulation. It was just strategic friendship facilitation.
What could be wrong with that?
“What’s with that mischievous look on your face?” Rose observed, her sharp eyes studying me. “It’s like you’re plotting something.”
“You’re absolutely right—I’m thinking ahead to my next project,” I said, which was completely honest.
Because Project Rose Rehabilitation had just moved to the top of my priority list. And I could not wait to get started.
Chapter Five
ZARA
At this rate, I was going to become the cautionary tale they’d share at FBI training seminars—the agent who torpedoed a federal case because she couldn’t keep her hormones in check around the suspect. And the most humiliating part? I’d gotten myself into this mess in the most spectacularly unprofessional way possible.
Somewhere between revolutionizing the library’s archive system and my impromptu Ride-Sam-Like-A-Bucking-Bronco session in his office chair, I’d developed a very inconvenient attraction to my target.
This was particularly baffling—and quite disturbing—since my standard operating procedure with humans involved minimal eye contact and maximum physical distance. Yet somehow, Sam had slipped past every defense I had without triggering so much as a warning beep.
How was that even possible?
I knew exactly how, and it was all my fault.
Yesterday in our room at the Bavarian Lodge, Chloe and I had pulled an all-nighter to study everything about Samuel Monroe: his childhood, his education, his work history, every detail we could dig up from FBI files, public records, and social media rabbit holes. What we’d found should have made him easier to categorize, easier to keep at arm’s length as we accumulated evidence. Instead, it just made me more fascinated with the man.
Sam had grown up to be exactly the person who flew under everyone’s radar, despite his extraordinary intelligence—mild-mannered, unassuming, the human equivalent of a brilliant mind wrapped in beige wallpaper. But here’s what made my heart do stupid fluttery things: instead of using his genius to get rich or famous, Sam had quietly become the human equivalent of a guardian angel. Last year, for reasons I still hadn’t uncovered, he’d started helping struggling families during the holidays—over a hundred of them, to the tune of four million dollars in anonymous gifts.
And that was my weakness right there.
A kind, generous heart.
Not a flashy man who wanted everyone to know how much money or power he had, but someone who treated his intelligence like a superpower meant for good. Someone who helped because kindness was simply how he moved through each day, expecting nothing in return except the satisfaction of making another person’s world a little brighter.
So by the time I’d walked into this library, I was alreadyhalf-smitten with a man I’d never met, had never even heard of twenty-four hours earlier, and a man I was supposed to be investigating. Add devastating good looks to his secret Santa operation, and I was basically doomed.
Focus, Rose.
You have a job to do.
I couldn’t explain to my boss that my heart was conflicted—not when my career was on the line. There was no backing out now. I had to ignore these feelings and rely on what had always served me best: my sharp mind and investigative skills. I needed to stick to playing the helpful volunteer, avoid small talk, and pretend his intelligence, humanity, hypnotic scent, and stupidly perfect smile weren’t making my heart flip and brain short-circuit. I would quietly gather enough evidence to either exonerate him or slap handcuffs on him, then extract myself from the equation with my job and my dignity still intact.
It was a simple plan, really.
So why did it feel almost impossible?
“This is seriously impressive work,” Sam said, scrolling through my database reorganization. After a few more appreciative clicks, he swiveled back toward me, genuine curiosity lighting up his face. “What did you say you do for a living?”
