Page 18 of Hacking the Holidays
“You okay there?” Sam studied me intently. “You look like you just remembered you left the stove on.”
“I was just wondering what you were going to have me tackle next,” I lied, plastering on my most convincing smile.
“Right. Let me think of something appropriately challenging?—”
“Monitor Mr. Jones, if you can,” Eleanor said, appearing beside us and frowning at the work area. “He’s at the laminator again, and yesterday, he tried to laminate his shoes to make them weatherproof.”
Sam chuckled. “My money’s on Mrs. Henderson jamming the printer with cat photos again. I’ve got it marked on my library disaster bingo card.”
“I saw the aftermath of that earlier,” I said, grateful for the subject change. “Honestly, if those are your biggest workplace crises, you’re living the dream.”
“True enough.” Sam nodded, then turned to Eleanor. “Did you know Rose is an MIT grad?”
Eleanor’s face lit up, then she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Of course! Having a fellow alum volunteer here was one of the main reasons I was so excited when she applied.” She beamed at me proudly. “Though she graduated ten years before I did.”
I watched Sam’s face as the mathematical wheels startedturning in his head, that barely suppressed smile growing more annoying by the second.
Eleanor waved dismissively. “That doesn’t matter, of course. Age is just a number.”
“Absolutely,” Sam agreed.
“I need to handle that delivery. I’ll be right back.” Eleanor was already heading back toward the front desk, leaving me alone with a certain archivist and his smug expression.
Sam could barely contain his glee, like a kid who’d just figured out the answer to a riddle. “Now, where were we? Oh, right—we were having that fascinating discussion about how age is meaningless.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” I pointed a warning finger straight at his smug face. “Don’t even say it.”
“Say what?” His grin was pure innocence wrapped in trouble. “That you’re forty-two?”
Direct hit. Of course.
Never leave the door open for a genius.
“Congratulations—you know how to add and subtract,” I said flatly. “Now that you’ve solved that earth-shattering mystery, shouldn’t you be putting my vast skill set to work instead of playing amateur detective?”
“I’m thirty-five,” he blurted out suddenly, like the confession had been burning a hole in his tongue.
I stared at him. “I’m not sure what you want me to do with that information. Should I alert the press or be baking you a cake?”
Sam’s laugh was genuinely delightful. “I just figured Ishould return the favor and let you know. Mutual transparency and all that.”
Mutual transparency? What exactly were we being transparent about? Was this his roundabout way of saying the seven-year gap didn’t bother him, and that we should give it a go? And if so, what made him think I was even interested?
“And you know what they say,” Sam continued as if I were actually interested in this topic. “Sixty is the new forty, so that means forty-two must be the new twenty-two!”
I nodded. “Uh-huh, sure … Following that logic with your age, thirty-five would be the new fifteen, so you need to have a parent with you if we’re going to continue this ridiculous conversation.”
Sam’s laughter was infectious, rich and genuine, the kind that made everyone within earshot reflexively glance in his direction and smile.
His gaze lingered on mine just a beat too long, his expression shifting into something softer, more intent. It was the same look he gave me during our impromptu hair removal crisis. The one that made me feel simultaneously appreciated and slightly unsteady.
Was I completely delusional? The age gap in our nonexistent and never-will-be-existing relationship was irrelevant, so why was I suddenly running the numbers and analyzing it so much?
I was in big trouble here.
Besides, maybe this was how Sam looked at everyone—his barista, his dry cleaner, the person who delivered hismail. Unfortunately, that same look hijacked my brain’s security settings, flooding my system with the kind of thoughts that belonged in romance novels, not federal case files. He was probably just being polite, and here I was, spinning fairy tales out of eye contact and common courtesy.
This was exactly how careers imploded.
