Sam grinned back, clearly pleased. “You had it right the first time. You just needed to trust your instincts.”
I watched, fascinated, as Sam had morphed from the guarded, defensive archivist I’d met into something completely different—a patient teacher, generous with his time and knowledge. It was like watching Clark Kent step out of a phone booth, except instead of a superhero costume, he’d put on basic human kindness.
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 fingersflew 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 Amazon 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 waveddismissively 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 mytone. “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 Amazon 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?”
