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.”
“Itisweird.” 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 ofthe 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.
