Her Jolly Billionaire (Billionaires of Pleasure Valley #4)

Chapter 1

NICHOLAS

The sugar cookies were winning.

In my unofficial competition, the sugar cookies had it by a landslide, actually, followed by snickerdoodles and those powdered-sugar snowballs that coat your fingers like evidence.

Mrs. Soleo’s fruitcake cookies—apparently we’re being generous with the word “cookie”—sat abandoned on the table near the door, stacked like a cautionary tale.

I pulled out my phone and updated my spreadsheet. Yes, spreadsheet. If I was going to suffer through small talk and carols about chestnuts, I was at least going to collect some data.

One sip of my gin and tonic—warm, flat, and barely gin-adjacent—reminded me why I usually skipped these things. After two years of living in Pleasure Valley’s most exclusive high-rise, this was the first time I’d shown my face at one of their “community events.”

But it was Christmas. And rumor had it there was a redhead here who could save my company’s analytics system from imploding.

Danika. The data whisperer. My only hope.

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from behind me, smooth and curious. I turned, expecting red hair and salvation. Instead, I got a brunette. And a problem…because she was stunning.

“Are you seriously data mining a cookie swap right now?” she asked, one eyebrow raised like she already knew the answer.

I blinked. Then just…stared. Like a socially inept chatbot who’d crashed mid-sentence.

She knew the term data mining. Sure, lots of people did, but something about the way she said it told me she actually spoke geek. She didn’t look like a geek, though. Not with those blue eyes and those eye-popping curves.

I pulled myself together and glanced down at my phone, then back at her. “I prefer the term ‘observational analysis.’ Data mining sounds so…invasive.”

“It is invasive.” She crossed her arms, but there was amusement in her expression. “You’re literally tracking cookie consumption at a community event.”

“Community events generate fascinating behavioral data,” I said, warming to the topic.

“For instance, did you know that sugar cookies are currently dominating with a three-to-one ratio over the next nearest competitor? And that Mrs. Soleo’s fruitcake cookies have achieved a perfect zero consumption rate in the past twenty-seven minutes? ”

A laugh escaped her. It sounded genuine, yet surprised. “You timed the fruitcake cookies?”

“Someone has to bear witness to that tragedy.” I offered what I hoped was a charming smile. “I’m Nicholas, by the way. Twenty-fifth floor.”

“Danika. Sixteenth.”

Wait. Danika?

I looked at her again. Dark hair, not red. Blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence. This was not the redhead Kyle had described.

“Danika?” I repeated, trying to mask my confusion. “You’re…Danika?”

Her smile faltered slightly. “Last time I checked. Why do you sound surprised?”

“I—” Think fast, Nicholas. “No reason. I just thought…I heard you were a redhead.”

“You heard wrong.” She tilted her head, studying me. “Why would you be hearing about my hair color?”

Abort. Abort.

“Community gossip travels in mysterious ways?”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t look convinced. “So what brings someone from the twenty-fifth floor down to mingle with us common folk? Besides the thrilling cookie data, obviously.”

I should have had a better plan. A smoother approach. But desperation leads to mistakes.

“Actually, I came looking for you,” I said.

Her expression shifted from amused to wary. “Me? Why?”

“I heard you’re brilliant with data. Analytics, specifically.” I gestured vaguely toward the cookie table. “Clearly, I need someone who understands predictive modeling, and—”

“And you thought you’d recruit me at a cookie swap?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

“It is weird.” But she hadn’t walked away yet. “What kind of analytics are we talking about?”

“Retail prediction. Holiday shopping behavior. My company—Nicholas Analytics, you might have heard of it—we help major retailers optimize their—”

“St. Nick’s Analytics.” She said it like she’d just solved a puzzle. “You rebrand for the holidays. Cute.”

“You know my company?”

“I know everyone in the data space.” She glanced at my phone screen, which still displayed my cookie spreadsheet.

“Though I have to say, your methodology here is pretty basic. You’re only tracking consumption rates, not accounting for presentation bias, table placement, or social pressure variables. ”

My heart rate kicked up. She was right.

“Social pressure variables?”

“Sure. People take the cookies closest to them to avoid reaching across the table. And they’re more likely to want cookies that others are taking because it signals safety and quality.

You’re measuring popularity, not preference.

” She pointed to the sugar cookies. “Those are winning because they’re front and center and shaped like snowflakes.

Put Mrs. Soleo’s fruitcakes in that spot and you’d see different results. ”

“Okay, that’s actually brilliant.”

“I know.” She said it without ego, just fact. “So why do you really need me? St. Nick’s Analytics is supposedly crushing it this season.”

I hesitated. Admitting failure wasn’t my strong suit. But she was looking at me with those sharp, intelligent eyes, and I had a feeling she’d see through any bullshit I tried to spin.

“We’re not crushing it,” I admitted. “Our predictions were off this year. Significantly. And I can’t figure out why.”

“How significantly?”

“Twenty-three percent across major retail categories.”

She winced. “Ouch.”

“Hence the desperate cookie swap appearance.”

“Hence the desperate cookie swap appearance,” she echoed, and I caught the hint of a smile. “What makes you think I can help?”

“Because you just identified three variables I completely missed in under thirty seconds. And if you can do that with cookies, maybe you can figure out what I’m missing with Christmas shoppers.”

She studied me for a long moment, and I found myself holding my breath. Then she reached past me, snagged one of the snowball cookies, and took a bite, powdered sugar dusting her fingers.

“These are good,” she said. “I made them.”

“You made those?”

“Used an algorithm to optimize the butter-to-flour ratio and modified the baking temperature curve. They’re mathematically perfect.” She licked sugar off her thumb. “Which is why they’re the third most popular cookie here, even though they’re tucked in the back corner.”

I stared at her. “You…algorithm’d your cookies?”

“You spreadsheeted a cookie swap. Don’t judge.”

Fair point. I opened my mouth to ask if she’d be willing to look at my company’s data when someone jostled my arm from behind. My phone went flying. Danika’s hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes that would make a major league outfielder jealous.

“Nice catch,” I said, reaching for it.

But she’d frozen, staring at the screen. Her thumb must have swiped across it when she caught it, because the display had switched from my cookie data to a different sheet in the same workbook. The wrong spreadsheet.

Oh no.

“Is this…” She scrolled slightly, her expression shifting from curious to horrified. “Is this a spreadsheet of women you’ve dated?”

“I can explain—”

“You rated them?” Her voice rose. “Intelligence, appearance, conversation quality, ‘long-term potential’? What is this, Yelp for girlfriends?”

“It’s not— I was trying to identify patterns—”

“Patterns?” She looked at me like I’d just kicked a puppy. “These are human beings, not data points. Did you tell them you were doing this?”

“Of course not—”

“Of course not,” she repeated, her tone icy now. “Because you know it’s creepy.”

“It’s not creepy, it’s methodical—”

“It’s reducing complex human beings to a handful of arbitrary metrics.” She thrust the phone back at me. “And for someone who supposedly needs my help, you sure seem confident you can quantify everything that matters.”

“That’s not— Look, I’m just trying to optimize—”

“Optimize.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You can’t optimize human connection, Nicholas. That’s the whole point of it being human.”

“But you algorithm’d your cookies,” I said.

“Cookies are chemistry. Dating is not.” She grabbed another snowball cookie from the table, clearly stress-eating now. “This is exactly what’s wrong with tech bros and data analytics. You think everything can be reduced to a formula.”

“I never said—”

“Your spreadsheet said it for you.” She dusted powdered sugar off her hands. “And you know what? I bet that’s exactly why your holiday predictions are failing. You’re probably optimizing for all the wrong things, measuring what’s easy instead of what matters.”

That hit uncomfortably close to home.

“So you won’t help me?” I asked.

She paused, studying me again with those too-smart eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t?”

“Your methodology is clearly flawed. And you’re obviously brilliant enough to build a successful company and just stubborn enough to not see your own blind spots.” She took another bite of cookie, thinking. “It would be professionally interesting to diagnose where your models are breaking down.”

Hope flickered in my chest. “So that’s a yes?”

“That’s an ‘I’ll think about it.’” She pulled out her own phone. “Give me your number. I’ll let you know.”

I rattled it off, watching her type it in. No spreadsheet visible on her screen, I noted. Just a clean contact entry labeled Nicholas—Cookie Stalker.

“Cookie stalker?”

“If the spreadsheet fits.” But she was smiling slightly. “I’ve got to get back to my roommates. Thanks for the entertainment.”

“Wait—” I caught her arm gently. “For what it’s worth, you’re not in the spreadsheet.”

“Obviously. We just met.”

“No, I mean…” I searched for the right words. “You wouldn’t be. You don’t fit any of my criteria.”

Her eyebrow arched. “And that’s supposed to be a compliment?”

“I’m starting to think maybe my criteria are wrong,” I admitted.

She looked at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she popped the last of her cookie into her mouth and said, “Expect a message with notes on everything you’re doing wrong.”

“I look forward to it.”

“You shouldn’t.” But she was definitely smiling now. “I’m very thorough.”

She walked away, leaving me standing there with my warm gin and tonic, my cookie spreadsheet, and the distinct feeling that I’d just met someone who was going to turn my entire world upside down.

The sugar cookies were still winning, I noted absently. But somehow, the data didn’t seem as interesting anymore.