Chapter 4
FOUR
The next morning, I grabbed Cam Carter by his pancake-like bicep and pulled him out of the Darcy yesterday, he felt like a direct threat to my being taken seriously as a CEO.
The life-size celebrity cardboard cutout gave off tween-with-One-Direction-posters-plastered-all-over-her-room vibes.
It was ten minutes until my next interview with Grant, and I wasn’t taking any chances this time.
I headed straight for the door on the right wall.
I opened it to a whiff of bleach and ammonia.
The dark room was full of brooms and vacuums and garbage bags, so making room for the wide base of the cutout took a bit of finagling.
Once I got Cam standing straight, I stepped out of the closet, shut the door, and dusted off my hands.
“Miss West?”
I whirled around to find Jenna and Grant approaching.
Guilty heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks like a beaker on a Bunsen burner.
The only thing worse than having Cam Carter’s cardboard form in my office was having Grant witness me shoving it into a closet. The best business handshake in the world couldn’t unring that bell.
Grant’s eyes flicked to the closet door, then back to me, his expression unreadable.
“I paged you in your office,” Jenna said, her tone a mixture of apology and self-justification, “and when you weren’t there, Mr. Wilder suggested coming to find you.”
I forced a smile. Why was I not surprised?
Grant was technically early, but I wouldn’t be shocked if that was his M.O.
: duck in on clients a few minutes before he was expected, hoping to find them in compromising situations like stuffing a celebrity into a closet full of chemicals generally found at crime scenes.
“Good morning,” Grant said pleasantly.
The top buttons of his collared shirt were undone, just like last time, and my hands itched to do them up.
His shirt was a button-up, but since it was beige and made of a canvas-like material and his pants were olive-green khaki slacks, there was no fear of mistaking him for a starched-up businessman.
And yet, the man oozed careless confidence.
“Why don’t we run to my office before we start our tour?” I suggested. “I have a few things for you.”
A look of intrigued surprise flashed through his eyes. “It’s not even my birthday.”
I smiled courteously at his dumb joke. “Shall we?”
He put out his hand as if to say after you, and I led the way.
Once we reached my office, I stopped at the edge of my desk. “My marketing manager put together some materials for you.”
There were two infographic sheets about Matchify—one for promotion to app users, the other with business stats and numbers for potential investors and partnerships.
Next to them was some swag: a Rubik’s cube with our logo and Let our algorithm do the solving printed on one side, a heart-shaped stress ball, and a vivid magenta T-shirt that said Statistically speaking, you’re my type.
Grant picked up the heart-shaped stress ball and gave it a squeeze, making the muscles in his forearm flex. “Are you trying to butter me up, Miss West? Wining and dining me?”
“If a stress ball is what you consider wining and dining, you might need our app more than I thought.”
His mouth pulled into a grin, and he set down the ball and picked up the T-shirt. He held it up in front of him, and I clenched my teeth.
“I can have Brooke get you one size up,” I said. “Or two.”
He looked down at the shirt that would barely contain his body. “That might be for the best. And if you have it in a coral pink, it’s a much better color on me than this one.”
I privately thought the shirt color suited him just fine, which was impressive, given how feminine most would think it. “Coral isn’t one of Matchify’s brand colors, so I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for magenta.”
“Can’t have everything, I guess.” He set down the shirt. “Haven’t had your coffee yet today?”
My brows drew together. Was that an insult?
He pointed to the cup next to my computer. He gave off easy-going vibes, but the man was clearly observing, storing up ammunition to use whenever it suited him. “You should sit down and enjoy it. We can hold off on the tour until then.”
“That’s okay. It goes cold every day.”
He stared at me. “You go to the trouble of making a cup of coffee every morning but never drink it?”
I shrugged. “It’s more ritual than anything at this point.”
“It’s a shame is what it is.” He took a seat. “Go ahead and drink it. I can ask you a few questions before we get started on the tour.”
I hesitated. It was a nice gesture—maybe?—and something in me wanted to refuse that type of thing from him because it felt loaded with danger. I couldn’t let myself get too comfortable with Grant Wilder. And I definitely couldn’t trust him.
But refusing felt a tad melodramatic, so I sat down and picked up the mug as he brought out his notebook.
I sipped at my coffee, waiting patiently and recalling all the things Brooke had coached me on yesterday—strategies to guide the conversation where I wanted it to go, ways to turn a difficult question into an opportunity to showcase Matchify’s strengths, and about five reminders to always bring things back to the people rather than the data.
That last one was a doozy for my number-philic brain.
“Your matches are only as good as the data users provide, right?” Grant said, not bothering to ease into things. “How do you ensure users are telling the truth about themselves?”
I forced myself to take a beat before responding.
“With four of our five founders being women, you can imagine we have a unique perspective and interest in combatting some of the more common issues that crop up on dating apps. We use ID verification and partner with background check providers. Users are automatically opted in to allow only matches with those who have passed those checks. Our algorithm also has a number of built-in features that flag certain problematic behaviors. Obviously, users can report issues as well.”
Grant’s scribbling was intense, but I didn’t allow it to get to me. We worked hard to protect our users. It wasn’t flawless, but it was a Mary Poppins system: practically perfect in every way.
“People lie in person too,” I added. “There’s no way to compel 100% honesty, but we do everything within our power to protect our users from bad actors.”
Grant continued writing as he spoke. “Does that include protecting their data? Data privacy is a hot issue, and I can only imagine your algorithms require a lot of private information.”
“We comply with all relevant privacy laws. We do not sell user data.”
“What happens to that information if a user deletes their account?”
“Their data is deleted from active servers and scheduled for permanent removal. As you can imagine, we fairly frequently have users who delete their account, only to change their mind a week later.” I took a sip of coffee and paid attention to the way the liquid warmed me instead of wondering what Grant was writing.
No matter how much I looked at the scrawl, I wouldn’t be able to read it.
He looked up at me, his pencil finally at rest. “Do you think there are any ethical concerns with monetizing love?”
This man was clearly not here for cute user stories about finding love.
“Of course,” I replied, barely masking my incredulous tone. “But don’t love songs make money? Couples therapists? Wedding planners? Aren’t they also monetizing love?”
Our gazes held.
“Just because a business model includes potential ethical issues doesn’t mean the idea isn’t a noble one worth pursuing.”
His eyes searched my face, his pencil still quiet. “You mentioned coming up with the idea for the app after watching people make poor dating decisions. Do you include yourself in that group?”
I controlled my expression, my heart pattering more quickly. Brooke warned me against this. “Speaking of ethics…”
He narrowed his eyes curiously. “Do you think my question violates ethics?”
“You’re here to learn about Matchify, right? My personal life has no relevance.”
“I beg to differ. You find the fingerprints of CEOs all over their companies. People want a peek inside great minds.”
Smooth talker.
“I don’t intend to provide you with fuel to burn down Matchify, Mr. Wilder.” I suppressed the desire to cringe. That had come off a bit feistier than it should have.
Grant’s brows went up. “Just how much fuel is there from your personal life? And it’s Grant.”
“None,” I replied calmly. My past relationship with Chase wasn’t a scandal, but it also wasn’t information I would ever offer up to Grant Wilder. He’d use it to delegitimize Matchify by overshadowing what we’d achieved. I could foresee the headline: CEO creates app to heal her own heartbreak.
“Everyone has something to hide,” he stated. “You think I’m trying to burn Matchify down?” The man shifted gears so fast, I was getting whiplash.
“Your reputation makes the likelihood one I’d be foolish not to consider.”
His mouth turned down at the corners in thought. “I care about the truth, wherever that leads.”
I laughed and took a final sip of my coffee. “Just like our users always tell the truth.”
His head tilted to the side. “I don’t follow.”
I set down the coffee mug and crossed my arms, facing him directly in my chair. “You said it yourself—our matches are only as good as our data. The same could be said of your reporting. If your story starts from a flawed assumption, how good is the conclusion?”
There was a little twinkle in his eyes as he stared at me in silence.
I wished I could tell whether it meant my point had landed or if he was thinking You’re a complete fool, Vivian West.
Either way, criticizing him wasn’t one of the strategies Brooke had coached me on.