Chapter 5 #2
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 I should 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 his mail.
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.
I’d heard stories of this brand of professional suicide before.
Agent Marts had compromised an entire Miami money laundering case after falling for her target, when he had been playing her the entire time.
Agent Jackson in Chicago had nearly blown a major cybercrime investigation when he’d gotten romantically involved with a witness.
The bureau’s solution had been to ship them both off to Nebraska, where they now dedicated their talents to insurance fraud cases in offices that made sensory deprivation chambers look like day spas.
Sam’s phone rang, making us both jump.
He held up one apologetic finger. “Sam speaking …”
While he talked, I was able to regain my focus, then seized the opportunity to casually glance at his computer screen. A little reconnaissance never hurt anyone.
His desktop background made me do a double-take—a photo of a distinguished golden retriever wearing wire-rimmed glasses, sitting in a leather armchair with a hardcover book open in front of him.
Either Sam had an unexpectedly whimsical sense of humor, or there were layers to this man I hadn’t uncovered yet.
The desktop itself was meticulously organized with just three folders on the bottom right.
“Santa” was the first folder, most likely his volunteer schedule.
“ProjectGive” had to be the families he was helping.
And “BadBoys”—well, that was probably his hit list of corrupt individuals funding his operation.
Now, I just had to figure out how to crack open those folders without getting caught. They were probably encrypted—because of course a genius would lock down his files—but I’d deal with that digital fortress when I reached it.
At the Bureau, I could instantly vanish from networks if I detected any signs that my targets had noticed my digital presence—close connections, wipe my tracks, disappear back into the cyber shadows. Here, with Sam literally breathing down my neck, there was nowhere to hide if he got suspicious.
His eyes flicked over to me mid-conversation, and I glanced away, suddenly pretending to be fascinated by the Einstein poster on the wall with the quote, “Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value.”
Without missing a beat in his phone call, he smoothly reached over and clicked off the power button on his monitor.
Coincidence? Or had he caught me red-handed?
I would find out soon enough …
“I understand, Harold. Feel better.” Sam hung up the phone with a heavy sigh. “Well, that’s not good.”
“Trouble in the North Pole?” I asked.
“Harold was supposed to be my fill-in elf this week—now he’s not feeling well.
” He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely worried.
“The timing could not be worse. I’ve got Santa events lined up every week until Christmas.
” He slumped back in his chair. “Harold’s the third elf to cancel on me. ”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
It definitely wouldn’t be me; I knew that much.
Eleanor appeared at that moment, coat already on and keys jingling. “I’m taking off. Everything set for tomorrow night?”
“I thought it was,” Sam said grimly. “Harold is sick and had to cancel. He was my second backup. I’m all out of elves.”
Eleanor’s eyes went wide. “Harold in elf tights?” She shuddered dramatically. “That must be quite a sight to see.”
“Believe me, I’m still recovering from the experience,” Sam said with a rueful laugh. “But he was actually amazing with the kids—patient, organized, never once complained about the hat with bells or anything else, for that matter.”
“What are you going to do?” Eleanor asked. “I’ll be managing the floor and the cookie table, so there’s no way I can fill in.”
Sam shook his head helplessly. “I have no idea. Everyone’s already drowning in holiday commitments. Finding someone willing to wear pointed ears with less than twenty-four hours’ notice is going to be nearly impossible.”
“There has to be someone …” Eleanor mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully.
They both fell silent, clearly cycling through mental contact lists. Then, as if controlled by the same puppet master, they slowly turned toward me in perfect synchronization, identical hopeful expressions blooming on their faces.
“Me? Oh, no.” I wagged my finger at them, then actually scooted my chair backward. “Absolutely not. I would be the worst elf in the history of elfdom. We’re talking legendary levels of terrible. Kids hate me.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Eleanor said, practically bouncing with excitement. “You’d be absolutely adorable!”
“I’m not talking about the cute factor—though green really isn’t in my color palette,” I said quickly. “I’m talking about being epically awkward around children. My very-limited interaction skills are calibrated for coffee-dependent adults, not sugar-fueled tiny people.”
“That’s actually perfect,” Sam said. “Kids love it when adults are a little awkward. Just being yourself will make them feel more confident, which will help them later in life.”
His rationale was getting under my skin.
“Besides,” Sam continued with devastating precision, “didn’t you just promise you’d do whatever I needed and that I wouldn’t have to ask twice?”
“That was for library work!” I protested. “You know—shelving books, organizing reading programs, maybe digitizing something from the eighties that you’d recently discovered in the basement.”
“This is library work,” Sam pointed out with a grin. “It just involves significantly more jingle bells.”
Eleanor clapped her hands together. “It’s perfect! The children will love you!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered.
Sam’s expression turned serious, and when he looked at me this time, there was something almost vulnerable in his eyes. “Rose, I’m genuinely desperate here. These kids have been talking about this event for weeks, and I can’t exactly be both Santa and his helper.”
“I don’t even have an elf costume,” I said, grasping for any reasonable excuse. “And I’m pretty sure they don’t sell them at the corner drugstore.”
“Already solved,” Sam said, looking way too pleased with himself. “The community theater performed A Christmas Carol last year, and they still have all the professional elf costumes.”
“Of course they do,” I muttered.
“They are clean and ready to wear. That’s where Harold got his, and they said we could use as many as we wanted.” Sam’s voice softened. “Please be my elf tomorrow night. Just once—it’s only three hours of your time, max. I swear I won’t make it a regular thing. I need you, Rose.”
The way he said, “I need you,” sent an entirely inappropriate shiver down my spine. I seriously needed to get a grip on reality.
The tiny sliver of my brain still functioning in FBI mode whispered that this was exactly what Agent Thorne had ordered—get closer to Sam’s operation, earn his trust, and become indispensable as I gathered evidence.
But getting closer to the case meant getting closer to him …
and loads of other people I would be expected to make eye contact with at a minimum.
It was for the job, so I could at least jingle a bell and give out candy canes.
But being that close to the object of my rapidly growing sapiosexual crush? That was dangerous territory…
I closed my eyes and sighed in defeat, knowing I had no choice but to wear green tights for the first time in my life, endure sizable crowds, and fake holiday enthusiasm for sticky-fingered small humans.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be your elf. Just this one time.”
Eleanor let out an actual squeal of joy, like I’d just agreed to donate a kidney. “That is wonderful!”
“Yes, it is. Thank you,” Sam said, and there was something that made the words feel like more than just gratitude for volunteer work. “You’re saving Christmas—literally.”
Or destroying it.
Only time would tell.
Eleanor glowed with satisfaction. “The two of you are going to make such a great team. I just know it.”
As she headed for the exit, I turned and caught the way Sam was still looking at me—like I’d just agreed to much more than being his elf.
If only I could hack into his head.
“Thanks so much,” he said. “I owe you big time for the favor. You absolutely won’t regret this.”
That’s where you’re wrong, Sam.
I already do.