Chapter 3 #2
My inquisitive mind immediately started running diagnostics. Hypothesis: Sam Monroe wasn’t antisocial—he was protective. He liked his privacy because he needed it for whatever Robin Hood operations he was running. The brusque exterior wasn’t misanthropy; it was operational security.
Sam Monroe was genuinely intriguing—but that didn’t change the fact that I still planned to arrest him and watch him trade his cozy library desk for a federal holding cell.
Three hours after I started Sam’s project, I’d finished and nonchalantly walked over to his corner while his head was buried in his computer.
Whisper-quiet, I moved past the reading area with the comfy armchairs, each of them occupied.
Shuffling closer to him from the side, I tried to get a peek at his monitor.
Sam’s computer was an absolute monster, much more than any normal human being would ever need.
His fingers flew across his keyboard in a blur of motion.
Code was scrolling down the screen too fast for me to parse the details, but the syntax was definitely not anything related to library cataloging systems.
He was hacking; I was sure of it.
And wow, he was good.
Mind-bogglingly good.
The moment Sam sensed my presence, his fingers performed a lightning-fast dance across the keyboard.
Click. The browser window with his hacking project vanished into digital oblivion, revealing underneath it an page that displayed silk boxers in his shopping cart.
Navy ones. With little reindeer on them.
The man had a surprisingly festive taste in underwear, no doubt about it.
Without missing a beat, he launched into an elaborate dusting routine, polishing his already spotless desk with the theatrical flair of someone auditioning for a cleaning commercial.
“I didn’t see you there, Rose.” He glanced up, his expression a masterclass in feigned surprise. “Do you have a question?”
I fought to keep my face neutral. “Yes, actually …” I took a step closer, carefully navigating around the loose cables around his desk. “Wow—this is a serious tripping hazard you’ve got here.”
Sam followed my gaze to the cable clutter, then nodded toward the wall. “The outlet over there died, so everything had to migrate to this side. It’s temporary.” He waved dismissively at the cord jungle. “Nobody would be clumsy enough to trip over something so obvious.”
“Actually, workplace tripping accidents account for approximately fifteen percent of all occupational injuries, with loose cables being the third leading cause,” I said.
“The visibility factor is irrelevant when you consider that most of these incidents occur because of momentary inattention rather than actual visual obstruction.”
Sam’s mouth quirked up slightly. “But I would imagine those statistics include all workplace environments. In controlled office settings with educated professionals, the rate would have to drop significantly.”
“True, but—”
“Didn’t you say you had a question?” Sam asked, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Oh, right … Do you have something else I can work on?”
His brow furrowed as he studied my face. “You mentioned excelling at data analysis. Which part gave you trouble?”
“None of it.” I straightened my shoulders, letting my confidence shine. “I finished the task. That’s why I need something else to do.”
For a moment, Sam just stared as if I’d announced I’d just solved world hunger.
A laugh escaped him. “That’s impossible.”
I shrugged, keeping my expression innocent. “Trust me—it’s not.” I tilted my head, letting challenge creep into my tone. “Why? Does it usually take you longer to accomplish the job?”
The gauntlet was thrown.
A polite, wonderfully nerdy duel initiated.
Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, caught between skepticism and curiosity. The analyst in him needed proof, even if his ego might not survive the verification process.
“Go ahead,” I gestured toward his monitor. “Check my work.”
Sam hesitated like someone about to open Pandora’s box, knowing full well what might escape.
Finally, his fingers found the keyboard and mouse.
First, he minimized the page with the reindeer boxers—with zero embarrassment, even though he knew I saw it—then logged into the library system.
As he began scrolling through the database, I watched his expression transform: skepticism melted into confusion, confusion shifted into something approaching awe.
Sam turned to me, his voice dropping to a disbelieving whisper. “How did you do this?”
“You look disappointed,” I said. “I thought you’d be happy I finished quickly.” I gestured vaguely toward his computer. “Now you have more time for shopping. I mean, for your other projects.”
“I’m not disappointed. I’m bewildered,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “That was supposed to be two to three days of work. Minimum. How did you complete it in three hours?”
“It was a straightforward process,” I explained, as if I were discussing the weather instead of revealing that I found his supposedly mind-numbing task to be elementary. “Your database is remarkably clean, which definitely sped things up. And you explained the task very well.”
Something flickered across his face—was that pride?
Sam quickly recalibrated and said, “Verifying three thousand entries is not straightforward. That’s tedious torture designed to break the human spirit.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—I wasn’t aware you were trying to break me,” I said, crossing my arms.
He opened his mouth and closed it.
“I’m kidding,” I lied. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t automate the process, so I took the liberty of automating it for you. That’s why I finished so quickly.”
“I’m impressed you could do that, but I find manual verification more reliable,” he said, even though he didn’t sound convinced by his own excuse. “Automation can introduce unforeseen errors.”
“That can be true, but manual processes for larger projects actually introduce a higher probability of human error because of fatigue and attention drift,” I countered.
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted, looking impressed that I was speaking fluent Nerd again.
The silence that settled between us was different this time. Not the awkward pause of two socially incompetent people failing to communicate, but the quiet recognition of two freakishly similar minds.
I realized that my mission was significantly more complicated than expected because Sam Monroe was a walking contradiction, a logic puzzle wrapped in an enigma, encrypted with human compassion and impeccable skin.
Sam glanced at his computer screen again, his eyebrows knitting together as he studied my work. “Hold on—I see an error.”
“What? I seriously doubt that.” I leaned over his shoulder to get a better look. “Where?”
“Right here,” he said, tapping the monitor. “The location for the Centennial Founders’ Day Parade was listed as being on Elm Street. The parade route has always been on Main Street since its inception.”
“I disagree with your assessment,” I said. “Your policy states that location metadata shall reflect the event’s documented physical location. That was the year of the Great Flood, and the parade was rerouted to Elm Street because Main Street was closed for repairs. The location is correct.”
Sam turned to me, surprised. “You’re absolutely right. I was out of town that year and completely forgot. I stand corrected.” He turned back toward his monitor, then scrolled through more of my work. “Wow—you are amazing.”
I leaned closer to watch again, and this time, I caught the scent. My mind immediately kicked into diagnostic overdrive.
It wasn’t one of those overpowering designer fragrances that screamed, “Look at me.” This was more complex.
Cedar and bergamot formed the base notes, I was almost sure of it, but there was something unexpected layered underneath.
Sandalwood, maybe? No, it was something zingy, like citrus, and the formula was doing strange things to my ability to concentrate.
Or was it Sam and not the cologne?
No, that would be ridiculous.
The scent was subtle enough that you’d have to be close to really appreciate its intricacies. I drew another quick breath into my nostrils, practically mesmerized by the smell, but determined to decipher the remaining components.
“What are you doing?” Sam’s voice cracked slightly as he turned toward me, putting us face-to-face, mere inches apart.
We were so close I could map the storm-gray flecks in his blue eyes, and even count each pixel of panic flickering across his features.
The air between us seemed to compress.
My thoughts scattered like startled birds.
I was breathless for reasons I couldn’t name.
What in the world was going on with me?
“Sorry—I was just …” I stumbled backward, my cheeks blazing, as I desperately tried to put some respectable distance between us.
Which would have been a brilliant plan if I hadn’t completely forgotten about the cables snaking around Sam’s workspace like digital spaghetti.
My hasty retreat immediately encountered a snag, literally, when my foot discovered the printer cable.
It wrapped around my ankle with the enthusiasm of an aggressive python.
“Careful there,” Sam said. “You’re making it worse.”
“I’ve got it,” I announced, just as I absolutely did not have it.
In fact, I was now performing an interpretive dance called “How Many Cables Can One Person Get Tangled In?”
The answer was all of them.
“Wait—don’t do that!” Sam launched himself toward me in his rolling chair like a knight charging into battle, except this knight had terrible depth perception and crashed into my legs with the grace of a runaway shopping cart.
Matter, motion, force, and energy took over from there with malicious glee as I toppled forward onto him, and of course, why not, with my breasts smashed in his face.
“I can’t breathe,” Sam said, his words muffled.
I pushed off his chest, trying to gather my bearings—and my boobs. For one crystalline moment, we were frozen, our gazes locked, teetering on the edge of physics.
Two people.
One chair.
And gravity is making executive decisions.
That was exactly when our situation got upgraded from “embarrassing” to “someone should probably warn the Red Cross—a disaster is about to happen.”
The chair executed its dramatic backwards death spiral, taking us down in what could only be described as a catastrophic ballet of flailing limbs.
I landed flat against Sam’s torso like a deflated superhero who’d crash-landed mid-flight, my calves and feet suspended in air behind me as if I was perpetually diving into an invisible pool that had mysteriously relocated.
Sam lay underneath me, eyes wide, mouth gaping open, completely and utterly speechless. The cables draped over us both like party streamers celebrating our mutual destruction of dignity.
That was the exact moment Eleanor investigated the commotion, finding us arranged on the floor like we were posing for the world’s most awkward Christmas card.
This was the reason I didn’t want to do undercover work. It was why I should never be let out of the house. And above all, it was precisely the justification for my needing a warning label hanging from my neck that says: “Danger: appears normal until activated by human contact.”