Page 31 of Hacking the Holidays
“That would be me—you have enough brain cells for both of us,” Chloe said with a laugh.
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Wow. Here I thought you were going to say something beautiful, like we’re soul mates or some equally touching sentiment about our profound connection.”
“No, that connection belongs to Mr. Sam Monroe.”
“Hey!” I hissed and pushed her arm, glancing around nervously. “Keep it down. Everyone in this town knows him, remember?”
Chloe laughed, completely unbothered by my paranoia. “Relax. Nobody can hear us, and half these people are three beers deep. You could confess to robbing a bank and no one would notice.”
She was right—the ambient noise provided excellent cover since the place was absolutely packed. Every table was occupied and buzzing with lively energy—couples, families with boisterous kids, and groups of friends laughing over pints.
Why was I so nervous? Maybe it was because I knew I would see Sam again soon, and I didn’t know what to expect.
I glanced at my watch.
“How much time before your volunteer shift?” Chloe asked, reading my movement.
“Twenty-five minutes,” I said.
Chloe leaned closer. “I still don’t understand how you are going to access his computer while he’s there. Even if you get in, finding anything useful won’t be easy. The man has impeccable digital hygiene.”
That was an understatement.
Last night was like trying to break into a bank vault armed with nothing but two rocks and a rubber band. I finally slipped past Sam’s initial defenses and into his network, but then found absolutely nothing when I got in. Every pathway led to a dead end. Every connection terminated in digital fog. No breadcrumbs, no traces, no accidental metadata left behind like a normal hacker would leave. It was like walking through a house where someone had meticulously wiped down every surface, burned all the trash, and replaced the air itself.
“It’s mind-boggling, his level of genius,” Chloe added.
Another understatement.
I spent my days hunting digital ghosts—tracking malware through networks, exposing backdoors that shouldn’t exist, and building fortresses of code that could withstand armies of hackers. It was elegant work, really. Clean. Logical. Every threat had a signature, every attack had a pattern, and every system had rules that, once understood, revealed exactly how to protect it. Every system except Sam’s
The man was a freak of nature, and I would drain my entire bank account just to get inside his head and see how his mind ticked.
“I guarantee my mind is much more boggled than yours,” I said. “One second I’m navigating through his system architecture, and the next second I’m staring at my blank screen like someone just pulled the rug out from under my feet, clutched me by my collar, and launched me face-first through a plate-glass window into a dumpster behind a seafood restaurant.”
“That’s … oddly specific,” Chloe said.
“That’s how itfelt,” I insisted. “Complete with the humiliation and the lingering smell of fish guts. I’ve never been booted from a system that fast or that thoroughly. It was beautiful in its efficiency.”
“Two words,” Chloe said with a grin. “Soul mate.”
“Stop it,” I replied. “Anyway—I broke through his encrypted fortress once—even if it was only for a few minutes. I’m sure I can do it again. I just need physical access to his system. Something I can work with that doesn’t trigger every alarm he’s installed.”
The server returned with our cheesecake, setting it between us with two forks. “Enjoy, ladies.”
“Thank you,” we said together.
Chloe dove fork-first into the cheesecake, strategically claiming the side drowning in limoncello glaze. “So, what’s the plan? Flutter your eyelashes in that elf getup until his brain short-circuits and he forgets to lock his computer?”
“That’s not—” I stopped mid-protest with my fork suspended in the air between the plate and my mouth. “Wait. Hold on. That might actually work.”
Chloe blinked. “I was joking.”
“I’m being serious.” I took a bite of cheesecake, the sharp lemon brightness cutting through the creamy ricotta. “Not the eyelash-fluttering part—I’m talking about distraction. Classic misdirection. If I can pull his attention away from his desk for even three minutes, I can slip in a backdoor protocol.”
“Zara …”
“Rose,” I corrected.
