She moved her hand, a suggestion of a stroke across the dark hair on his chest and a sound rumbled under her cheek. She snatched her hand away, fisting it in the sheets that covered them to the waist. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Daniel reached down and tangled his fingers with hers, drawing her hand back and splaying it on his sternum, holding it in place. “I wasn’t asleep.”
The flutter in her chest—could he feel the way her heart and breath tripped over each other at the nearness of him, the warmth, the reality of him?
“I have a question for you.” His voice still vibrated under her cheek in a way that set her bones tingling.
A question. Lord. Questions could be dangerous and, in her current state, she’d probably tell him anything. “Okay.” Her voice sounded tentative and she tried again. “Ask away.”
“What was the major alien makeup fail between TNG and DS9?”
“Seriously?” She lifted her head and stared at him, catching a smile quivering at the corners of his mouth, even though his eyes were closed. “Star Trek trivia? Now?” She laughed. Apparently people did check into hotels to play Star Trek trivia. Who knew?
“I figure I have you at a disadvantage.” He opened one impossibly blue eye. “No available money to bet.” He lifted the sheet and peered down at their naked bodies. “No clothes to wager. You’re going to have to get creative when I win.”
She propped her chin on his pectoral, and his muscles tensed. “What makes you think you’ll win?”
He shifted, turning onto his side to face her, his hand warm on her waist, his fingers tracing gentle circles on her back. “Remember, I’ve been practicing.”
“What are the stakes? What do I get if I answer correctly?”
“This.” He kissed her, his tongue delving deep, and her toes curled.
She fought to catch her breath. “That’s good. What do you get if my answer is wrong?”
His lips curved and one dimple flickered into sight. “This.” He kissed her again with equal heat.
When he ended the kiss, she sucked in air as if her hull had been breached. “Your logic is flawed. Your true and false paths both lead to the same place.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” She stroked the side of his face. This late at night, scruff shadowed his jaw, a tiny prickle against her palm. “Logic is overrated.”
“So. Don’t dodge the question, Forrester. What’s your answer?”
“Easy. The Trill. In TNG they had that vaguely feline brow ridge. DS9, they borrowed the scale tattoo pattern from the Kryotions.”
“Correct. Claim your forfeit.” He kissed her again, pulling her body flush against his. From the way his erection rode the curve of her hipbone, this game was about to give way to a different kind of play. Totally all right with her.
He pulled back, taking her breath with him. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Your turn.” His voice was husky.
“I…” She got lost in his eyes. In his smile. “Name the two actors who intersected X-Men and a single episode of TNG.”
He shook his head, one brow quirking up. “Too easy, Doctor. Are you distracted, by any chance?”
“What makes you say that?” Breathless. Lord, she sounded like Meredith.
“Because I can follow your train of thought. The same episode with the hi-jacked Trill makeup. Patrick Stewart and Famke Janssen.” He tugged on her curl. “You know the name of that episode?”
She nodded.
“Tell me.” He nuzzled her neck and trailed his hand up her side to cup her breast, brushing her nipple with his thumb.
“‘The Perfect Mate,’” she whispered. “Daniel, I—” But he followed the line of her shoulder with his open mouth, and the caboose of her alleged thought-train rattled by and disappeared along with her wits. Later. I can tell him later. Not now.
Chapter Seventeen
Geekronym: MUD
Translation: Multi-user dungeon
Definition: A class of virtual reality experiment accessible via the internet; real-time chat forums with structure, which may have multiple locations and include combat, traps, puzzles, etc.
Bathed in the bright July morning sun that gilded the table in the Brunch Spot, Daniel felt too warm for the first time since arriving back in Portland. He toyed with his orange juice glass. Fidgeted with his fork. Refolded his napkin. He aimed a mental eye roll at himself. Christ, after one night with Charlie, just being separated from her while she was in the restroom threw off his equilibrium. He needed to see her smile, twine his fingers in her curls, listen to her riff on some obscure data theory, her eyes sparkling.
This was ludicrous. He’d managed well enough for the last decade or more. Maybe that was the problem. He had arrears to make up. Years of Charlie moments that he’d cheated himself out of because he’d been a teenage asshat.
To keep himself occupied, he pulled out his phone, frowning when he noticed the notification icon that identified important emails. Another message from rosserx, this time with an attachment.
Full doc attached, but pertinent info here:
Franklin Argonne proposed the concept of passive compatibility matching, although he assumed it wasn’t possible and used unethical collection methods to seemingly support his theories. However, using readily available social media data sets and the predictive algorithm described here, a successful pairing can be achieved with a probable success rate in excess of 93 percent.
Unease crept up his spine with a chill like spreading frost. Damn. Argonne wasn’t the only one out to make a buck off lonely men. Maybe he’d have that sensational story for Nelson after all, but, Christ, the poor guys.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Daniel Shawn, the journalist?”
His fingers clenched around his phone. The news about an Argonne-inspired scam, coupled with his Trisha-honed instincts, fired his distrust of too-convenient encounters. He raised he gaze from the ominous email.
The dark-haired, highly-groomed woman standing next to his table was decked out in a yellow suit more appropriate to an upscale New York club than a restaurant in the Pearl. Warning bells clanged in his mind. She’s out of place and she knows my name.
She held out her hand, and he didn’t have much choice but to stand up and shake it.
“Shanna McAlister. I’m a big fan of your work.”
Okay then. A reader. He rustled up a little politeness. “Thanks.”
She gestured toward the empty third chair. “May I?”
He glanced toward the back of the restaurant. Still no Charlie. He pulled the chair out in invitation. “Of course.” As little as he wanted interference now, it never paid to piss off readers, especially since he had so few left. “Although I’m here with someone.”
Her gaze caught the multi-colored scarf draped over the back of the chair opposite hers and her face took on the same self-satisfied smirk he’d last seen on Trisha before she’d revealed her endgame. The last thing he needed intruding on his afterglow was someone with that kind of agenda, reader or no.
“I didn’t realize you were in town, although I’d heard a rumor. On the trail of another IT scandal?”
“No. Just got back to town. Settling into a new gig.”
He willed Charlie to take her time in the restroom until he could figure out Shanna’s game and get rid of her, but his luck was out, because she emerged, nearly running into a busboy carrying a stack of folded tablecloths.
A wry smile twisted her full mouth at the near miss as she skirted the room, so intent on dodging obstacles that she didn’t notice their uninvited guest. One table away, though, she slowed, smile fading. Her attention focused on Shanna, sitting relaxed at the table and sipping a glass of water delivered by an overzealous waiter.
He stood up, closed the distance between them, and took Charlie’s hand. “This is M
s. McAlister. She’s a reader who stopped by to chat.” He put extra emphasis on reader so Charlie would know Shanna wasn’t on his own personal radar. From the look on Charlie’s face, she needed some reassurance. He was sure he’d made it pretty damn obvious how he felt last night, but if she needed the words, he’d say it. “Ms. McAlister, this is Charlie Forrester. My girlfriend.”
Charlie’s hand jerked in his, and she tried to pull away, but he held on, adding a gentle thumb stroke to soothe her.
Shanna laughed, as cold and brittle as the ice in her glass. “You’re kidding me. It’s only the fifth of the month. You’re better than I gave you credit for.”
Daniel frowned. “I’m sorry. What?”
She balled up her napkin and tossed it onto the table. “You win, Dr. Forrester.”
Charlie’s mouth opened but nothing emerged.
Daniel’s chest tightened, and his brows snapped together. He hadn’t introduced Charlie by her title, had he? “You two know each other?”
“Let’s say we have a prior acquaintance.” Shanna pushed her chair back. “Incredible. From zero to score in less than a week. I didn’t believe it, despite Meredith’s glowing commendation.”
Charlie wouldn’t meet his gaze and Daniel released her hand, his palms suddenly damp. She dropped into her chair and leaned toward Shanna, hands clenched in her lap.
“Can we please discuss this tomorrow?” Her voice was low and fierce, but the glance she shot at Daniel was furtive, almost frightened. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“The sooner the better. Since I never dreamed I’d lose, I’ve already positioned another candidate for the job. I’ll submit your name tomorrow as an alternate, but if you want to stay in the running…” Shanna stood up, brushing off her skirt. “The more prepared you are, the better. Expect their call within the week.”
“I…all right.”
Shanna shot a hard glance from Charlie’s bent head to Daniel. “Before you gloat, though, Doctor, you might consider whether winning this bet was worth your self-respect.”
Shanna pivoted, the heel of her stiletto sandal skidding on the hardwood floor. She recovered, straightened her shoulders, and walked out of the restaurant.
Daniel turned back to Charlie, his orange juice an acid pool in his stomach, the familiar chill tingling in his chest. She hunched in her chair, twisting her scarf in her hands, her lips tucked in against her teeth in the antithesis of her smile.
“Charlie? What was she talking about?” The memory of Trisha’s betrayal caused his voice to roughen, but he didn’t care. He needed to know the truth and he needed it now. “What bet?”
Chapter Eighteen
Geekronym: BSOD
Translation: Blue screen of death
Definition: Officially a STOP error; the error screen displayed by the operating system when a non-recoverable critical error causes the system to crash.
“Daniel, it’s not…” Charlie took a shuddering breath and draped the scarf around her neck, smoothing the ends across her thighs, anything to keep from seeing the mingled hurt and anger in Daniel’s face. “Shanna’s the co-owner of the staffing company where I’m registered, the one that AGS uses exclusively.”
“You’ve dreamed of working for them since you were a kid.”
He sat down and reached across the table, but she didn’t take his hand. She didn’t deserve his comfort.
“My regular account manager is away. I’ve never gotten along with Shanna, and when the AGS job got posted, she didn’t believe me when I told her that data supported me as the perfect candidate.”
“So she bet you that you couldn’t match up another job with a viable candidate. Is that it?”
Don’t be a coward, Charlie. She shook back her hair and looked Daniel in the eyes. “No. Not about a job. My algorithm…it’s a relationship probability predictor.”
“So you bet your program’s success…”
“Against the AGS job. If I could accurately predict a successful, mid-range Stage Two relationship within thirty days, she’d support my candidacy.”
“Define mid-range Stage Two relationship.”
“More than casual dating, less than full commitment. Two…” She swallowed, a tiny voice in her head protesting that two months, six months, a hundred months wouldn’t be enough with him. “Two to six months.”
“You actually get guys to say that’s what they want?”
“No. It’s a passive algorithm. I use public social media data to build their profiles. They don’t have to do anything.”
“Passive.” His jaw tightened. “So they tell you they want to participate and you pull their data?”
Charlie shifted in her chair and looped one end of the scarf around her neck. “Not exactly. We only include men in our data pool that at least two of the women know or are interested in.”
“So then you ask them if they want to join?” Daniel’s voice had lost its soothing tone. This was his reporter’s voice. Hard-edged. No nonsense. Just the facts, ma’am, and pretty damn quick.
“Not exactly.”
His lips thinned, lines bracketing his unsmiling mouth. “I’m getting tired of that answer, Charlie. When exactly do you get their permission?”
She gulped some water and the cold traveled down her throat and landed in her belly, spreading icy tentacles out along her arms and legs. “One of the women invites them to a meet-and-greet. They don’t have to show up.”
“So if they show up, then you ask them for permission?”
“Not…” His brows snapped together, and she swallowed the word. The waiter, approaching to refill their water, veered off. Charlie wished she could follow, to escape the growing anger darkening Daniel’s face.
“So you build their data profile and use it to aim women at these guys without them expressly opting in?”
“It’s public data,” she said, desperation robbing her voice of conviction.
“It’s public data, yeah, but what you’re doing with it is private. Don’t you think these guys deserve the chance to agree to participate?”
“None of them have complained.”
“Because they don’t know how it works.” Daniel wasn’t bothering to keep his voice low, and the nearby diners were taking notice.
Charlie leaned across the table. “Do you seriously believe,” she said, lowering her voice and hoping Daniel would take the hint, “that the people who use social media don’t know the internet is a public venue? They’re not stupid.”
“Stupidity isn’t the issue. You don’t have to understand how a car works to drive it, any more than you have to completely understand an application to be able to use it.” Daniel scrubbed his hands over his face. “Shit. This is Philip’s dating club, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Sort of. It was a field study for my doctoral dissertation.”
“Ah, Christ. Poor Phil. He actually believes Meredith likes him.”
“She does like him.” Charlie willed him to see, to understand. “Why is a relationship any less valid because its beginning is data-driven instead of random?”
“Because you’re manipulating these men into situations without their knowledge.”
“I estimate probability. It’s not the same as influencing behavior.”
Except…oh Lord. She had tried to influence the result, hadn’t she? With Philip and Meredith. With her own fake profile.
“Fine, then. How about privacy? Freedom? Ownership of the information about your life? That’s what I’m talking about. Besides, it’s not a double-blind. The women know what the score is, but the men have no clue.”
Charlie had nothing to offer. Nothing but the desperate need to make Daniel understand. “Those women meet once a week to discuss their relationship goals and results. You seriously believe a bunch of men would want to do the same?”
“That’
s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“Choice. Full disclosure.” Daniel’s words could have been chipped from stone. “Some kind of notice that they’re suddenly getting lucky because of an algorithm, like having their faces show up on Amazon as a recommended read.”
“Why does that matter as long as everyone gets what they want?” Charlie clutched the ends of the scarf in her fists, pulling until she felt it snug against her neck. “It’s no different than a blind date, except the chance that both people will have a good time is increased exponentially because the date isn’t set up by your great-aunt Tessie who thinks just because our mothers were both from Indiana that we’d be perfect for each other. The data—”
“They’re not data points. They’re people.” He leaned back in his chair, carding his hands though his hair, and stared at a spot over her left shoulder. “You know what? Never mind.” He focused on her again, no warmth left in his gaze. “Big Data ethics aside, who are you using to validate your data for your bet with Shanna? It better not be Philip.”
“No,” she said, the fight draining out of her. “Not Philip.” She searched for a way, some combination of words, some formula, to explain in a way that wouldn’t result in him hating her forever.
He swore under his breath. “Shanna wasn’t talking about my speed, was she? She was talking about you. You’re the test case.” Charlie stared at him, mute, as if the scarf around her throat had cut off her ability to speak. “Is that why you were so friendly with Philip? Was he your target?”
“No. He was…” Charlie’s voice barely rose above the conversation at the surrounding tables. “Practice.” For you. She didn’t say it aloud, but as the truth dawned on Daniel, changing his frustration to hurt, he compressed his lips as if holding in something he couldn’t bear to speak.
“Must have been a shock, having the perfect program match you with me. How tough was it, pretending you liked me?”
“Not tough at all. I mean, I wasn’t pretending.”
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