Page 17 of Hacking the Holidays
“I didn’t,” I said, ready to steer away from personal territory.
Sam’s smile turned knowing. “And are you planning to tell me?”
I aimed for casual indifference. “I hope you won’t takethis the wrong way, but I don’t enjoy talking shop when I’m out of the office. It’s my way of completely disconnecting from a stressful job. I’m a very private person, and I expect others to respect it.”
“I totally get that,” Sam said, and his understanding felt refreshingly sincere. “Can you at least tell me where you studied? I’m genuinely curious about where someone learns to reorganize chaos so efficiently.”
This I could handle. I’d memorized my fake resume and cover story so thoroughly I could recite it backwards. I’d even created a few fake LinkedIn articles under the Rose Thompson alias.
“MIT, Computer Science,” I said.
That part was true—I had that degree.
The Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice from Boston University, however, was something he did not need to know, and was staying buried in a tomb.
“MIT?” Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Very impressive. Let me guess, you graduated top of your class?”
I gave him what I hoped was a modest shrug instead of boasting about my awards for creativity, innovation, and mentorship.
“Of course you were.” He leaned forward, eyes sparkling with even more interest. “I know a few people who went there. What year did you graduate?”
My mental security system went into full lockdown mode. That information was classified at a need-to-know level, and Sam? He definitely didn’t need to know.
“Is that your smooth way of fishing for my age?” I raised an eyebrow. “Points for subtlety.”
I wasn’t ashamed of being forty-two—it’s just that some topics are off-limits with men I’ve just met. Like my browser history, how often I dye my hair, or how I rehearse conversations in the shower before I leave the house.
Sam threw his hands up in mock surrender, that infectious grin never wavering. “Guilty as charged—but not for the reason you think. I’m trying to figure out if you know any of my friends. And for the record, age is just a number. It means nothing to me. I’ve met teenagers who have the emotional intelligence of Gandhi and have also seen middle-aged people throw tantrums in grocery store checkout lines. Maturity doesn’t always correlate with years.”
“Ah, so now you’re calling me immature?” I faked a frown, even though I was so close to smiling.
“Absolutely not.” Sam’s expression turned angelically innocent. “But you would have to agree with me that some people pack more wisdom into fewer years.”
“Absolutely, but it should also be noted that some people are not as smart as they think,” I shot back.
Sam pressed a hand to his heart like I’d physically wounded him. “Ouch. Here I am, trying to sound all philosophical and charming, and you just called me a vain know-it-all. I’d be offended if it weren’t completely accurate.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Oh please, that wasn’t even aimed at you. You’re probably the least arrogant person in the city.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Sam said, arching an eyebrow. “We just met.”
This was exactly why I’d specifically requested desk assignments that kept me safely behind a computer screen. The last time I’d been sent into the field, I’d blown my cover in twenty minutes by correcting a suspect’s understanding of blockchain technology. I was terrible at improvisation, which was precisely why I avoided both small talk and undercover work.
I scrambled for damage control …
“It’s pretty obvious,” I finally said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “Eleanor has been singing your praises since I walked through the door. Apparently, you’re the town’s most beloved volunteer Santa, among other things. Plus, I’m a great judge of character.”
“Ah … well, thank you.” Sam nodded humbly, accepting my explanation without question. “I do what I can to pitch in.” He gestured toward me with unmistakable warmth. “And thankyoufor volunteering. Seriously. That’s very kind of you.”
“My pleasure,” I said, marveling at how different he seemed now compared to the guy who’d practically tried to shoo me away earlier. “Like Eleanor said, I’m at your disposal, whatever you need. You don’t have to ask me twice.”
There was a beat where we just smiled at each other—two normal people genuinely enjoying each other’s company—before my brain rudely reminded me that thiswas absolutely not part of the plan, and that we were not normal people.
This is small talk!
The exact thing you swore you’d avoid!
Abort mission!
