“You asked Kyle about my schedule?” I crossed my arms, trying to look annoyed instead of flattered. “That’s creepy.”
“No, what’s creepy is that Kyle knows your schedule. I just strategically inquired about building patterns.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in a way that should not have been adorable. “That sounded worse, didn’t it?”
“So much worse.”
“In my defense, I’m running on approximately four hours of sleep and enough espresso to fuel a small aircraft.” He pushed one of the empty cups aside, making room. “Sit. Please. Unless you’re just here to judge my life choices, in which case, could you at least wait until I’ve had more coffee?”
I should have said no. Should have gotten my latte and left. Instead, I sat.
“Four hours of sleep?” I turned his laptop around so I could see his screen. “Let me guess—you’ve been obsessing over your failed predictions all night.”
“I prefer the term ‘intensive analysis.’”
“I prefer the term ‘spiral.’” I pointed at the chart on his screen. “And this is why. You’re looking at the same data the same way, expecting different insights. That’s not analysis, that’s insanity.”
He leaned forward, suddenly intense. “Then tell me what I’m missing.”
The barista cleared her throat loudly. “Did you want to order something?”
“Oat milk vanilla latte with sugar-free syrup,” I called back, not taking my eyes off Nicholas’s data. “And he needs water. Lots of water.”
“I don’t need water?—”
“You need water.” I clicked to another tab on his spreadsheet. “Trust me, dehydration makes you stupid, and you’re about to need all your brain cells.”
He blinked. “You’re going to help me.”
“I’m going to tell you what you’re doing wrong. Whether that’s helpful is up to you. But first, I need you to answer a question honestly.”
“Okay.”
“That spreadsheet. The dating one.” I met his eyes. “Do you actually think you can quantify compatibility?”
He hesitated, and I watched him war with himself. The urge to defend his system versus the desperate need for my help.
“I did,” he said finally. “I thought if I could just identify the right variables, optimize for the right qualities…” He trailed off, looking at his coffee. “But it turns out my most successful relationship lasted three months, and according to my spreadsheet, she should have been perfect. And the person I couldn’t stop thinking about last night doesn’t check a single box.”
My heart did a stupid flutter. “Nicholas?—”
“I know it’s messed up.” He looked at me again, and there was something raw in his expression. “I know it reduces people to data points. But I’m good at data. I’m not good at…this.” He gestured vaguely between us. “People. Connection. The stuff you can’t measure.”
“So you tried to make it measurable.”
“Yeah.”
The barista brought my latte, and I wrapped my hands around it, thinking. He was watching me with this hopeful, anxious expression that made him look younger than he probably was.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “Your instinct isn’t totally wrong. Data can reveal patterns. But you’re treating people like your retail clients—as if human behavior is just another algorithm to crack.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” I took a sip of my latte. “Because people aren’t trying to optimize. They’re trying to feel something. And feelings are messy and irrational, and they don’t fit in spreadsheets.”
He absorbed that, nodding slowly. “Is that what’s wrong with my holiday analytics? I’m optimizing for the wrong thing?”
“Probably.” I pointed to his laptop. “I pulled your company’s public data last night?—”
“You did?”
