No Match Found (Matchify #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

Always say no to a Monday morning interview.

Why, oh why, had I consented to a Monday, of all days?

Scratch that. I knew why. And I’d have agreed to a lot more. Vantive Ventures could’ve asked me to put on a Cat Woman suit and meow at strangers on the street, and I’d have Googled the closest costume store.

I was good at saying no—you didn’t get to be the CEO of a thriving tech startup without developing that skill—but when a renowned venture capital firm like Vantive expressed enough interest in your company to ask you to do something as simple as an interview?

You’d have to be a fool to say no, not to mention totally selfish.

Twenty-eight current employees and an untold number of future ones were counting on me to pull in our next round of funding.

I pushed my glasses higher on my nose, dismissed the eat something notification—who had time to eat on a Monday morning?—and searched my inbox until the email came up. I had fifteen minutes before the interview, and I needed a refresher on what exactly I’d agreed to sell my soul for.

We’ve been in touch with a journalist who’s working on a piece about tech-driven relationship platforms. We think Matchify would be an excellent example of innovation in this space. Would you be open to an interview next Monday at 10:15?

A knock on the glass door echoed in my office.

The middle third of the glass was heavily frosted—despite running a matchmaking app, I’d flat-out rejected the suggestion of pink frosting—but the vibrant magenta heels were a dead giveaway that my visitor was my marketing manager, Brooke Ellis.

She also happened to be the one who’d suggested the pink frosting.

“Morning, Viv!” Brooke said in her bright voice.

I may have been the brains behind Matchify, but Brooke was the heart, and that’s what she looked like: wavy brown hair, brown eyes with constant smile lines, and clothes that brought a pop of color into my office full of black, glass, and gold accents.

Our personalities didn’t have much overlap, but I would’ve done anything for Brooke, and she would’ve done anything for me.

She made Matchify look good and feel good.

She wasn’t just my marketing guru, either; she was one of the original five founders. In fact, Matchify got its start in her house.

“Just came to remind you about your 10:15.” She gathered up a few papers on my desk and organized them. She wasn’t a neat-freak, but she knew I’d cringe letting anyone in my office if it was looking the least bit messy.

“Thanks.” I opened a drawer and pulled out my compact and lipstick. “I just saw the notification.”

She stuck a couple of pens in my pen holder. “I feel kind of weird about this interview. Like I’m flying blind.”

I slowed the glide of my lipstick to reply, “You realize I’m the one doing the interview, right?”

Her eyes widened. “Gosh, can you imagine if it were me?”

“I can. You’d do a fantastic job.”

Brooke might not survive on Matchify stats like I did, but she knew how to market our vision.

“That’s definitely a matter for debate,” she said. “All I meant was that I’m usually the one who sets this stuff up, you know? I always do some recon and prep you.”

Holding up the mirror, I shifted my head from right to left and back again, then checked my teeth for lipstick to make sure I wouldn’t be doing an interview looking like a vampire fresh off the hunt.

“I know, but Vantive’s comms director passed it along and asked if I’d be open to it.

I didn’t want to risk seeming uptight or resistant by pushing for too many details.

” I shot a look at Brooke, who was nice enough not to laugh at my reluctance to be labeled with the word uptight, which was a very apt description of me, according to my ex—or possibly anyone who knew me.

I set aside the compact, then spritzed perfume onto my neat black blazer. “It’s just a puff piece anyway. Vantive wants to make sure we show well.”

“Which we do.”

“They said we’re one of the most promising players in the space—”

“The most promising player, but go on.”

I smiled. I loved that Brooke believed in the company as much as I did.

I was very much aware how lucky I was to have her and our other three founders by my side.

I was an only child with parents who lived all the way across the country, but my Matchify friends kept me from feeling deprived of family.

“The point is,” I said, “if a little interview makes Vantive feel more confident giving us an obscene amount of money, I’m all for it.

It’ll go a long way toward reassuring them.

Apparently, they had an unfortunate incident with a wellness company where the founding couple used the app to livestream their breakup.

They’re understandably a little gun-shy now. ”

Brooke clenched her teeth. “Yikes. No pressure on you, right? Oh! That reminds me.” She dashed out of the office, using her foot to prop the door open as she reached for something just out of sight.

I sat down and cleared my computer screen, then pulled up my go-to spreadsheet with some of Matchify’s most impressive numbers. I let my eyes run over them quickly even though I was intimately familiar with them.

Brooke was right. We would show well.

Her head popped back into view, eyes glittering with that happy energy unique to her. “I brought you moral support.” She slid a large cardboard cutout into the open door frame.

The lifeless but handsome smiling man staring at me was Hollywood heartthrob Cam Carter. On his white shirt, Brooke had Sharpie’d our company tagline in magenta: Data meets destiny.

“What exactly am I looking at?” I asked.

She grasped both cardboard shoulders and gazed up at Cam Carter. “Our bright future.”

I raised my brows and waited for her to look back at me.

“Can you imagine if we partnered with somebody like this?” Brooke said. “We’d be set for life.”

“So, this is your vision board.”

“Our vision board. I think Cardboard Cam will be great for office morale too. And he can be a constant reminder that we’re dreaming big here.”

“We are indeed. But while I appreciate Mr. Carter’s services, they aren’t required at this precise moment.”

My phone intercom beeped, and I tapped the button to respond.

“Your 10:15 is here, Miss West,” the receptionist said.

“Thanks, Jenna. You can send him in.” I opened my compact once more and tucked two stray pieces of red hair behind my ears.

Those hairs outright refused to grow long enough to reach my tidy chignon.

They defied bobby pins and hairspray. We fought more than Tom and Jerry, and like Jerry, they always won.

“You look stunning,” Brooke reassured me.

“He’ll be lucky if he can remember his own name once he sees you.

” Her brows suddenly drew together. “Or is it a she? Gosh, I hate being this clueless.” She glanced over her shoulder, then hurried to the doorway.

“You know how to reach me if there’s an emergency.

Break a leg! Or maybe do some box breathing! ”

She left without specifying what sort of emergency she imagined might happen during a basic interview.

I’d done dozens of these over the past couple years, mostly with small tech bloggers and local magazines.

You had to take whatever publicity you could get when you built a company from the ground up.

I’d gotten my hopes up in the past that we’d get a big publicity break from an interview, something that would send our user numbers soaring. Without fail, the story ran, and the effect on our numbers was a pathetic blip, if anything.

Visible through the unfrosted bottom of the glass office walls, Jenna’s camel-colored ballet flats approached, and right behind them, a pair of taupe loafers with jeans dusting the tassels.

Jeans. The middle finger of professional attire choices, which would make loafers the yawn. I could already see the faded Def Leppard t-shirt under a thrifted blazer.

Oh, gosh. Would this guy be wearing a beanie over his bedhead?

I stifled a sigh. Today’s interview wasn’t looking to be our big break.

There was a quick knock, then Jenna opened the door.

She was our just-out-of-high-school receptionist, with jet-black hair and bright red lipstick.

Her cheeks were the slightest bit rosier than usual and her lashes fluttering at an alarming rate as she met my gaze. “Mr. Wilder to see you, Miss West.”

My gaze snagged on Cam Carter, whom Brooke had left behind in her mad-dash from the office. I stifled a cringe, but it was too late to do anything about it.

“Thanks, Jenna.” Rising to my feet, I smiled gratefully, then nodded to indicate she could go.

She looked at Mr. Wilder, who was still concealed by the frosted glass, then moved aside for him to come in.

There was no Def Leppard T-shirt or beanie-covered bedhead.

Above the loafers and jeans was a crisp, off-white button-up shirt, the top two buttons undone like he’d grown bored midway through the task.

Rolled sleeves revealed defined forearms that seemed plenty capable of doing up a dozen buttons.

A head of tidy-but-tousled sandy blond hair sat above a pair of tortoise-shell glasses and good-natured but keen hazel eyes, which took me in with unapologetic shrewdness.

“Vivian West.” Mr. Wilder stepped toward my desk and stretched out the hand not holding a notebook and pencil—maybe he intended to doodle to stave off the boredom during our interview. Though, the man didn’t look bored. “I’m Grant Wilder.”

I took his hand, which gripped mine firmly.

I made sure to match it with my own well-practiced hold.

In the business world, it was handshakes, not pictures, that were worth a thousand words, and I’d cultivated mine to say I’m eminently capable.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilder. Welcome to Matchify.”

A notification dinged on my computer, and I stifled the impulse to glance at it.

It was followed by another two dings, the soundtrack to my life. My eyes begged to dance over to the screen, but I kept them on my guest.

Mr. Wilder smiled, like he could tell it was taking all my resolve to ignore them.

I offered an apologetic groan. “Let me just silence those.” I leaned over and grabbed my mouse to mute the volume, but my eyes snagged on the message from Brooke.

URGENT

I dismissed it, but a new message popped up immediately.

DO NOT IGNORE ME, VIV!

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Mr. Wilder’s steady gaze had me dismissing it and navigating to the volume menu.

I clicked the mute option as a third message popped up from Brooke.

That’s Grant Wilder! From Threadline.

These words meant nothing to me, but it was obvious they should have, which only made my chest tighten uncomfortably.

I couldn’t help myself.

I quickly typed, Meaning…?

The response from Brooke was immediate.

He’s been called the rising king of takedown journalism.

My eyes whipped to the man I was stuck with for the next hour—a man who looked like a cat tracking a mouse that had wandered into the wrong room.