Not in a creepy way—at least that’s what I told myself. Just observing. Learning her patterns. The way she moved through the world like she was carrying something heavy but refused to put it down. The way she sat in Crescent Park every afternoon around two, laptop open, headphones in, completely absorbed in whatever was on her screen.
Most people came to the park to escape. She came to work.
That intrigued me more than it should have.
Today was warm, the kind of New Orleans heat that made the air thick and lazy. I parked my car on the street and walked the path toward the bench where she always sat—third one from the fountain, under the oak tree that provided just enough shade. She was there, exactly where I knew she’d be, wearing a tank top and shorts, her natural hair pulled back in a puff, fingers flying across her keyboard.
I approached slowly, hands in my pockets, trying to look casual. Like I just happened to be walking by. Like I hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes sitting in my car, working up the nerve to do this.
When I got close enough to see her screen, I stopped.
She was day trading. And from what I could see, she was about to close a position way too early.
“You should hold just a bit longer,” I said.
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “Excuse me?”
“That stock.” I nodded toward her screen. “You’re about to sell, right? I’d hold. Maybe another hour. The momentum’s building.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her expression somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. Then she said, very clearly, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
I couldn’t help it—I smiled. Most women would’ve been flustered or flattered that I’d noticed what they were doing. She was pissed.
“Fair enough,” I said, holding up my hands. “But look at the volume. It spiked fifteen minutes ago and it’s holding steady. That’s not profit-taking, that’s accumulation. Institutional money’s moving in. If you sell now, you’re leaving money on the table.”
She looked back at her screen, her jaw tight. I watched her scroll through the charts, checking the indicators I’d mentioned. Her fingers paused on the keyboard. Then she leaned back against the bench and crossed her arms, studying me with those sharp, intelligent eyes.
“How long have you been standing there watching my screen?”
“Long enough to see that you’re good at this,” I said honestly. “But you’re playing it too safe. You’ve got the read right, you’re just not trusting it.”
“And you know this because…”
“Because I do the same thing.” I gestured toward the empty space on the bench. “Mind if I sit?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s a public bench.”
I sat down, keeping a respectful distance between us. Up close, she was even more striking than I’d realized from a distance—the kind of beautiful that didn’t need effort, that came from intelligence and confidence and something deeper I couldn’t quite name.
“How long have you been trading?” she asked, her tone still guarded but curious now.
“Few years. Started when I was trying to figure out how to make money that didn’t involve…” I trailed off, catching myself. “Let’s just say I needed something legitimate.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Legitimate. That’s an interesting word choice.”
“Yeah, well….” I leaned back, matching her posture. “We all got our histories.”
She studied me for another moment, then turned back to her laptop. I watched her pull up another chart, this one showing the broader market trends. She was checking my analysis, verifying what I’d said. Smart. Cautious. Not the type to take anyone’s word at face value.
“You’re right,” she finally said, and I heard the reluctance in her voice, like admitting it cost her something. “The volume’s there. Institutional accumulation.” She glanced at me sideways. “You trade full-time?”
“Nah. More like a side thing. Keeps my mind sharp.” I nodded toward her screen. “What about you? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
“Trying to learn,” she said, and there was something vulnerable in the admission. “I’ve got some capital now, and I’m tired of letting it sit in a savings account, earning nothing. Figured I’d put it to work.”
“That’s smart. Most people are too scared to even try.”
“Most people haven’t been broke enough to know what scared really feels like.” The words came out sharp, defensive,and I saw her catch herself. She shook her head. “Sorry. That was?—”
