Chapter 5
Chapter Five
ZARA
At this rate, I was going to become the cautionary tale they’d share at FBI training seminars—the agent who torpedoed a federal case because she couldn’t keep her hormones in check around the suspect.
And the most humiliating part? I’d gotten myself into this mess in the most spectacularly unprofessional way possible.
Somewhere between revolutionizing the library’s archive system and my impromptu Ride-Sam-Like-A-Bucking-Bronco session in his office chair, I’d developed a very inconvenient attraction to my target.
This was particularly baffling—and quite disturbing—since my standard operating procedure with humans involved minimal eye contact and maximum physical distance. Yet somehow, Sam had slipped past every defense I had without triggering so much as a warning beep.
How was that even possible?
I knew exactly how, and it was all my fault.
Yesterday in our room at the Bavarian Lodge, Chloe and I had pulled an all-nighter to study everything about Samuel Monroe: his childhood, his education, his work history, every detail we could dig up from FBI files, public records, and social media rabbit holes.
What we’d found should have made him easier to categorize, easier to keep at arm’s length as we accumulated evidence.
Instead, it just made me more fascinated with the man.
Sam had grown up to be exactly the person who flew under everyone’s radar, despite his extraordinary intelligence—mild-mannered, unassuming, the human equivalent of a brilliant mind wrapped in beige wallpaper.
But here’s what made my heart do stupid fluttery things: instead of using his genius to get rich or famous, Sam had quietly become the human equivalent of a guardian angel.
Last year, for reasons I still hadn’t uncovered, he’d started helping struggling families during the holidays—over a hundred of them, to the tune of four million dollars in anonymous gifts.
And that was my weakness right there.
A kind, generous heart.
Not a flashy man who wanted everyone to know how much money or power he had, but someone who treated his intelligence like a superpower meant for good.
Someone who helped because kindness was simply how he moved through each day, expecting nothing in return except the satisfaction of making another person’s world a little brighter.
So by the time I’d walked into this library, I was already half-smitten with a man I’d never met, had never even heard of twenty-four hours earlier, and a man I was supposed to be investigating. Add devastating good looks to his secret Santa operation, and I was basically doomed.
Focus, Rose.
You have a job to do.
I couldn’t explain to my boss that my heart was conflicted—not when my career was on the line.
There was no backing out now. I had to ignore these feelings and rely on what had always served me best: my sharp mind and investigative skills.
I needed to stick to playing the helpful volunteer, avoid small talk, and pretend his intelligence, humanity, hypnotic scent, and stupidly perfect smile weren’t making my heart flip and brain short-circuit.
I would quietly gather enough evidence to either exonerate him or slap handcuffs on him, then extract myself from the equation with my job and my dignity still intact.
It was a simple plan, really.
So why did it feel almost impossible?
“This is seriously impressive work,” Sam said, scrolling through my database reorganization. After a few more appreciative clicks, he swiveled back toward me, genuine curiosity lighting up his face. “What did you say you do for a living?”
“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 take this 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 thank you for 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 this was 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!
“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 started turning 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.