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.”
“Itisinvasive.” 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.
