Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
SAM
I was starting to think Rose came installed with some kind of walking Murphy’s Law generator. Was she genuinely this accident-prone, or was something else going on with her I wasn’t aware of? At this rate, I’d need to bubble-wrap the entire library before her next volunteer shift.
She stood motionless at my desk, clutching the remains of my favorite coffee cup like she was trying to figure out if superglue and wishful thinking could undo whatever had just happened.
Her expression screamed guilt—the guilt that suggested she’d been caught doing something far worse than accidentally breaking a piece of dishware. She still wasn’t answering what she was up to, and every instinct I had was firing warning signals.
This shouldn’t have been difficult. It was a simple question with what should have been a simple answer. Instead, she looked like I’d just asked her to explain quantum mechanics using only interpretive dance.
“I was—” She glanced down at the ceramic pieces in her hands, then back at me. “The cup. I knocked it over.”
“You knocked it over,” I agreed, staring at her intently. “How?”
“How?” she repeated.
“Yes. How did you knock over a cup that was sitting securely on my desk while you were sitting securely in my chair?” I gestured at the workspace behind her. “Walk me through the physics of this situation.”
Rose’s eyes darted to the desk, then back to me, her brain clearly working overtime to construct a narrative.
“I was leaning over to look at your desk calendar, and my elbow caught the edge of the cup. Simple momentum transfer and spatial awareness failure. I do it all the time at home. Object in motion, laws of inertia, any given item meets gravity and a hard floor. Crash. Boom. Bang.”
The explanation was delivered with enough technical detail to sound credible, complete with confident eye contact and a casual shrug that suggested this was the most mundane accident in human history.
Except Rose’s pupils were dilated.
Her breathing was slightly elevated.
She was shifting her weight from one leg to the other.
There was something she wasn’t telling me.
“Interesting,” I said, crossing my arms.
Rose placed some of the broken pieces of my cup she’d been holding on my desk. “You’re not convinced.”
“I didn’t say that,” I said.
“You didn’t have to. Your micro-expressions gave you away—slight tension in your jaw, narrowed eyes, the way you crossed your arms in a defensive posture rather than a relaxed stance.”
Rose was studying me as much as I was studying her. I found this so fascinating that I was temporarily at a loss for words, which was rare.
“There’s no need to overthink this,” she added.
“But are we overthinking it?” I asked.
“You tell me. You’re the one conducting a forensic investigation into the tragic death of a coffee cup.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Fair point, but in my defense—”
Someone cleared their throat behind me …
I turned to find the woman who had knocked over all the books standing in front of me with a sheepish look on her face.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I was hoping you could help me find a comprehensive guide to Pacific Northwest hiking trails. I’ve looked everywhere, and I’m surprised you have nothing.”
“We definitely do,” I said. “In fact, there are over twenty books on the subject directly behind you.”
“Yeah?” She flipped around, ran her fingers across the spine, then pulled one from the shelf. She spun around on her heels and added, “This is perfect! Thanks so much.”
I gave her a half-bow. “My pleasure.”
“I should have known you’d know exactly what I needed,” she said. “Rose talked highly about your encyclopedic library knowledge. She said you were basically the human equivalent of Google, but with better accuracy and significantly more charm.”
I blinked, processing that statement, then turned to look at Rose.
She had gone still.
Suspiciously still.
The kind of stillness that animals adopt when they're hoping a predator won’t notice them if they don’t move.
“You two know each other?” I asked slowly.
Rose’s smile appeared a half-second too late to be natural. “Sam, this is Chloe, my best friend. The one I mentioned was here in town with me. The one you’ll see later for bratwursts at München Haus.”
Chloe extended her hand, her expression friendly and open. “It’s so good to officially meet you, Sam. And sorry again for demolishing that book display earlier. I promise I’m not usually such a disaster.”
I shook her hand automatically, my brain trying to connect dots that seemed just slightly out of alignment.
“Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.” I paused, looking between them. “Though I have to ask—is clumsiness contagious? Because you two are eerily similar in your capacity for creative destruction.”
Chloe laughed, the sound genuine and unguarded.
“I can assure you, we’re complete opposites in almost every way.
Rose is methodical, organized, intelligent beyond belief, and thinks three steps ahead of me.
I’m impulsive, frenetic, and stumble through life hoping things work out.
The only thing we consistently agree on is food. ”
“And yet you both caused property damage within ten minutes of each other.”
“A mere coincidence,” Chloe said brightly.
I turned my attention back to Rose, who suddenly stood up straight, her hands flying behind her back, like she was hiding something.
Something in her posture triggered that same instinct I’d felt moments ago—the sense that I was missing something important, something hiding just beneath the surface of this casual conversation.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Rose blinked, as if coming back from somewhere distant. “Yes. Sorry. I’m just feeling terrible about your cup. I have this thing about breaking other people’s belongings. I’m going to buy you a new one, the exact one, so don’t worry.”
I shook my head. “That would be impossible because it was a collector’s item from the seventies. If you can even find one, which I doubt you could, the replacement would probably cost you about four thousand dollars.”
Rose blinked. “Four thousand dollars for a coffee cup?”
I chuckled and waved it off. “That was my attempt at humor.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” Rose deadpanned.
“I need to work on my delivery,” I said with a shrug.
“Hilarious!” Chloe squeezed my arm. “You certainly are the complete package, Sam. Are you single?”
“Anyway!” Rose jumped in, straightening her shoulders, and visibly pulling herself back together. “We need to get back to work. You mentioned the bug you wanted me to get rid of.”
“Right—you two should definitely get to that,” Chloe interjected with enthusiasm.
“I’ll leave you to your genius collaboration.
" She waggled her fingers in a wave. “See you both at the restaurant later. Looking forward to those bratwursts, and thanks so much for including me. That was so sweet of you.”
“My pleasure,” I said.
Chloe headed toward the checkout scanner with the hiking book tucked under her arm, leaving me alone with Rose and a growing collection of unanswered questions.
I studied her face, trying to reconcile the nervous energy with the straightforward explanation, when she looked up and caught me.
“You’re staring again,” Rose said. “Most cultures find that rude.”
“You’re right—I apologize,” I said, making a conscious decision to let it go. At least for now. “Occupational hazard of spending too much time with computers—I treat human behavior like I’m debugging code, and then run diagnostic tests on them.”
“I hope you got it out of your system.”
“For now,” I admitted. “Though I reserve the right to revisit the debugging when the urge hits me.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—genuine this time, not the carefully constructed variety from moments ago. She bent down for the small trash can from beside my desk, then started gathering the scattered papers and ceramic pieces from the carpet.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said, moving to help. “I can do it.”
“So can I.” Rose continued collecting the larger shards, methodically working her way across the mess. “Besides, I broke it. The least I can do is clean up my disaster.”
I was about to argue when she made a sharp intake of breath and jerked her hand back. Blood welled up from a cut on her index finger where a vicious ceramic shard had caught her.
“Ouch,” she said under her breath, moving her hand closer to inspect the damage.
I was already moving, reaching across my desk and pulling a tissue from the box. “Here. Apply pressure.”
“Thanks,” Rose said, taking the tissue and wrapping it around her finger.
I dug through my bottom drawer for the first-aid kit Eleanor had insisted I keep on hand. It was wedged behind a box of emergency protein bars and a half-dozen charging cables.
“Take a seat,” I said, pulling the other chair closer.
Rose sat, still holding the tissue against her finger, looking more annoyed with herself than in actual pain. I opened the first aid kit and extracted disinfectant, cotton swabs, and a bandage.
“Let me see,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before extending her hand. I carefully unwrapped the tissue, examining the cut. Small but deep enough to have bled freely if she hadn’t applied pressure to it.
I dampened a cotton swab with disinfectant. “This might sting.”
“I can handle it,” Rose said.
I cleaned the wound with careful precision, aware of how close we were sitting, but trying not to over-analyze it. The cut was clean, with no ceramic fragments embedded, just a straightforward laceration that would heal quickly.
Rose watched my face while I worked, and when I glanced up, our eyes locked.
The moment stretched.
She had incredible eyes—sharp, yes, but also complex. Layers of something I still couldn’t quite identify, but would be wise to not mention. Curiosity mixed with caution. Warmth under careful control.
“What?” Rose asked.
“Your eyes …”