Eleanor’s head swiveled between us like she was watching the world’s nerdiest tennis match.
Rose held up a finger. “Though if we factor in the psychological tendency to prioritize comfort over fashion …”
“The odds jump to around twenty percent,” I finished.
“Exactly,” Rose said.
We stood there staring at each other.
What just happened?
The ease with which we’d just deconstructed a simple observation into a statistical analysis had seemed to startle both of us. It was like finding someone who spoke a language I thought only I knew.
Eleanor looked between us with growing amazement. “I … wow. That was ... thorough.”
Warning bells went off in my head.
This woman’s brain operated on my exact frequency, which meant she was either my soulmate or my downfall—and given my current circumstances, probably both.
Eleanor finally broke the spell. “Looks like you’ve met your match, Sam! Someone who actually thinks like you do. What are the odds of that?”
Rose opened her mouth to answer, and I quickly held up my hand to stop her. “It was lovely to meet you, Rose, but there is quite a bit of work to catch up on. All pretty time-sensitive.” I turned toward my desk, suddenly desperate for the safety of my computer screen.
“I can’t wait,” Rose said, and to my horror, she started following me.
I froze mid-step, confusion replacing my mental calculations.
Turning back, I looked between Rose and Eleanor with growing paranoia. “What’s happening here?”
“Sam—she’syourvolunteer for whatever projects you need help with!” Eleanor said, like this should have been obvious. “Rose is at your disposal.”
“But please don’t dispose of me,” Rose said, with what I think was supposed to be humor. “The recycling bins are too small, and I bruise easily.”
I didn’t laugh.
This situation was not funny at all.
The universe had just sent an oddly fascinating and intelligent woman directly into my carefully hidden and protected world. A woman who could finish my sentences, analyze my thought process, and have the same fashion sense as me.
It was the single most terrifying development I had experienced in years. And the worst part was, I did not know what to do about it.
Chapter Three
ZARA
My cybersecurity training had prepared me for many things: tracking cryptocurrency transactions, infiltrating dark web forums, and pulling all-nighters chasing ransomware gangs from the safety of my ergonomic desk chair. What it had not prepared me for was standing in the hushed, book-scented bowels of the public library, pretending to be a “community-minded volunteer” named Rose Thompson, while my target looked at me like I was a virus that had learned to walk.
I was still trying to wrap my head around the exchange Sam and I had over the odds of wearing the same clothes. In the span of sixty seconds, we had deconstructed a simple observation into a statistical debate, a rapid-fire volley of probabilities and data points. It was like watching a mirror of my own mind in action.
“Thank you, but I don’t need a volunteer,” Sam said, histone carrying the same polite but firm rejection I used when telemarketers called about extending my car warranty.
“Of course you do!” Eleanor said with conviction. “Your December calendar is absolutely packed with community events, archive projects, and holiday programs.”
The flash of alarm in Sam’s eyes was unmistakable. Someone was paying attention to his patterns, documenting his schedule, and he clearly didn’t appreciate the surveillance.
Welcome to my world, buddy.
“This will take a lot off your plate,” Eleanor continued with the relentless cheer of someone who’d already decided this conversation had only one outcome.
