Chapter 6
SIX
“Matchify is all about compatibility. Do you think compatibility is the same thing as chemistry?”
Grant Wilder and his questions would be the death of me. I suspected that was his goal: my untimely demise.
“The same thing?” I resituated my glasses on my nose. “No. But the correlation is undeniable, particularly if you know what areas of compatibility are most meaningful.”
“Liking the same kind of donuts?”
I shot him an unamused look. He must’ve noticed my reaction when he’d mentioned maple bars. I was a sucker for them.
He put his palms up. “Hey, it’s one of your questions.”
“A question that’s helping paint a bigger picture. No healthy relationship ends up in the gutter because one person likes sprinkles and the other likes Bavarian cream.”
“Personally, I don’t know how someone could make anything work long-term with anyone but a maple bar lover. But why ask the question at all if it has so little to do with compatibility?”
“It’s a proxy, Grant. We’re not only looking at the answer—we’re taking note of the amount of time it takes to get there. Is the responder decisive? Do they choose one, then change their mind?”
“Very Big Brother of you,” he said as he scribbled on his notepad.
I’d been debating bringing up the succulent note since he’d arrived. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how long Katie and I had spent decoding the message.
“We prefer thorough.”
“Big Brother prefers the same thing.” He winked at me, but before I could do anything but experience a little spike in heart rate—a mark of my annoyance—his eyes were back on his notepad.
A buzzing sounded, and I glanced at my phone, but it was face up on my desk, the screen dark.
“Sorry.” Grant reached into his pocket and silenced his phone. “So, what would you say—”
His phone went off again. He silenced it and restarted his question, only to be interrupted yet again. He glanced at the screen of the dinky, little flip phone and grimaced.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Take it.”
I wouldn’t mind a quick break from the third degree.
Maybe it was the glasses acting like a magnifier, but Grant’s direct gaze felt like the time my mom caught me in a lie in junior high.
I’d said I was going to the movies with my best friend when I’d really gone to Tyler Hatch’s house.
That was the night before he’d dumped me for the head cheerleader. So not worth the trouble I’d gotten in.
Grant got up and shot me a quick smile. “Thanks.”
The door closed behind him, and I let out a long, slow breath.
It was our final interview, and I was half-impatient to say goodbye forever to Grant, half-reluctant to let him out of my sight.
He was the most head-scratching combination of intense and easygoing. He reclined in his chair like he was shooting the breeze with longtime friends, but all he actually shot was pointed questions like an expert marksman.
Or a hitman.
I was pretty proud of the way I’d handled him, but it meant not letting my guard slip even for a second. I’d managed well so far.
But that didn’t mean that whatever he wrote wouldn’t end up being a hit piece. His attitude toward Matchify was highly skeptical, maybe even tinged with cynicism. I wished I knew why. He might just have that attitude about everything—hazard of the job. But maybe there was more to it.
He insisted I brought my personal experience into the app’s creation? Well, he brought his into his investigation of it, and that raised a lot of questions.
I’d never know the answer to them. Grant Wilder wasn’t just a closed book. He seemed more like a CIA black file—probably with as many repercussions for opening it without the proper clearance level. I wouldn’t have minded a tiny peek, though.
My door opened, and Nick slipped in with a glance over his shoulder. “How’s it going?” he asked a bit breathlessly with a smile.
I smiled back, grateful to see a welcome face. Katie gave Nick constant grief for ducking out regularly to do long lunch dates with his wife, but he always got his work done. He was reliable—and a very needed dose of testosterone amongst our estrogen-dominant group.
“It’s going,” I said. “Just trying to make it through this last bit without handing Grant a jug of gasoline to throw over the Matchify bonfire.”
“You still think that’s his aim?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think the man knows how to write an article that’s not overtly critical. Have you read his stuff?”
“Just glanced over a couple headlines. But I thought you two were getting along pretty well. At least, that’s what it’s looked like.
” He put his hands into the pockets of his suit pants.
Nick always showed up dressed like a businessman—unlike some people.
“Honestly, I wondered if he was kinda into you.”
I blinked, then let out a curt laugh. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
I turned to my computer. “You’ve been out of the dating game too long.”
“About as long as you,” he shot back. He’d been married for a couple years now—right before my breakup with Chase, in fact.
I hadn’t dated since. Matchify was more than enough to handle. And a lot less heartbreak.
“I thought I’d check in on you,” Nick said, walking toward the door. “I’m just a Slack message away if he comes onto you too hard.” He stopped and turned his head so I got a glimpse of his profile. A distinctly mischievous smirk. “Unless you want that…”
I looked for something to chuck at him, but since my choices were an empty coffee mug or paperclips, I settled for yelling, “Out!”
He obediently opened the door and stepped out, only to duck his head back in. “You know, Hailey and I just watched one of her favorite movies—A Cinderella Story. As the wise Hilary Duff once said: Don’t let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”
“That’s not Hilary Duff, Nick. It’s Babe Ruth.”
“Either way, a babe said it and it’s good advice.” He closed the door.
I shook my head. Was he really urging me to make Grant Wilder my re-entry point into the dating pool? A pool I’d nearly drowned in?
No, thank you.
If I ever risked my heart and sanity dating again—something I had no intention of doing at this point in time—it would be done strategically, dipping one toe into warm water with a lifejacket and an oxygen tank.
Dating Grant Wilder would be like cannonballing into a shark tank with a raw steak strapped to my chest.
He’d eat me alive and still have room for dessert.
A curious thought struck me.
Did he open up to the women he dated? It was hard to imagine.
It was entirely possible he already had a girlfriend—maybe that was why he’d been resistant to filling out a profile. Most people might’ve mentioned that detail to justify not using Matchify, but Grant Wilder wasn’t most people.
And now I was stuck wondering what he would be like as a boyfriend.
Thanks a lot, Nick.
It was the last thing I needed as I tried to keep my cool and finish this never-ending interview-from-Hades on a strong note.
I grabbed my phone and navigated to my messages, then scrolled and scrolled until I got to the one at the very bottom. After a split-second of hesitation, I tapped on it.
You’re so intense.
The black text stared back at me, stark against the bright white background of my phone.
I’d never responded to it. It had been the last communication Chase and I had exchanged. I’d thought about deleting it a million times. I should have. Instead, I looked at it every now and then and remembered what it had felt like to be dumped for being too much. For being me.
The most ironic part? Chase had been attracted to me initially because I was motivated and determined. So many people had been intimidated by my drive that meeting him had felt like finally being seen—and liked, not in spite of, but because of it.
Apparently, I’d cured him of that, though. The woman he was with now looked like the kind of person who lit sage before bedtime and went for mid-morning walks after yoga. No spreadsheets, constantly dinging reminders, or cold coffee on her desk.
Beautiful and mellow.
“Sorry about that.”
I turned off my screen as Grant came back into the office and set my phone down like I’d been looking at something far more incriminating than an old text.
Grant’s gaze flitted to the dark screen of my phone. Those eyes didn’t miss a thing. He probably thought I was cyber-stalking him or something.
I couldn’t decide if I’d prefer his believing that or knowing the truth.
“No problem,” I replied with an overly bright smile. “I had to shoot off a couple messages.”
He sat back down and got comfortable again. “That was my editor.”
“Oh?” I replied politely. Grant wasn’t the type to offer up information willingly, so I assumed there was a reason he was telling me this.
“Yeah.” His eyes fixed on me, and I was annoyed to find my hand stealing to the same place it always did when I felt like someone was evaluating me: to my rogue strands of hair. I tucked them behind my ears.
“I promised I’d float his idea to you,” Grant said.
My stomach clenched. “What idea is that?”
“He wants more.”
“More…what?” The thought of extending these interviews made me want to cry—and I wasn’t a crier.
Grant’s eyes never strayed from my face. “He thinks there’s a great story here with Matchify, but he wants something more…human.”
My chest constricted. More human.
What did that mean? That my interviews had felt inhuman? Robotic?
Chase’s face flashed across my mind, lit by the TV screen while I’d sat with my laptop.
He’d been sprawled on the couch, trying to coax me to come watch Survivor, but I’d been working on a stats project for class.
“Don’t you ever relax, Viv? You’re always on, always working. I swear you’re like a robot.”
I shoved the memory away. “Meaning…”
“He wants more about you—the woman behind the app.”
I stared at him, my heartbeat growing louder in my ears. “But it’s supposed to be about Matchify, not me.”
Grant took a moment before responding. “Are you single?”
The question snatched my breath, but when I managed to snatch it back, all I could think to say was, “I said no personal questions, remember?”
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “My editor was really interested when he found out you don’t use the app. And when I told him we’d started filling out profiles, he had an idea. He wants to expand the piece on Matchify. The concept is for me to observe you as you use the app.”
I stared at him, then the ugliest laugh I’d ever generated escaped my lips.
The corner of his lip lifted. “Give it a second to percolate.”
“No.”
There was a pause. “No, you won’t give it a second to percolate? Or no, you refuse the concept?”
“Yes.”
His brows pulled together. “I don’t…”
“I don’t need a second for it to percolate because it’s a hard pass.”
He seemed amused rather than frustrated. “I told him you’d say that.”
Why did it bother me that he thought me predictable? “Any sane person would say no to that, Grant. Why don’t you use the app? Write about your experience.”
“Who says I’m not?” His eyes gleamed with mischief, like he was daring me to admit I knew he hadn’t accessed his profile since we’d sat at Katie’s desk yesterday.
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’d be pretty powerful, though, don’t you think?
The CEO of Matchify stands behind her app enough to use it herself.
The founder of Bumble did it, and the user trust it created was significant from what I understand. ”
“She was already dating the guy,” I argued. “It was a publicity stunt.”
“And it worked. Users ate it up.”
I pressed my lips together. Was I willing to let Grant watch me use Matchify? Not just watch me use it but write an entire article about it afterward?
I was willing to do a lot for my company and for our users, but there were limits, and this was one of them.
I shook my head. “No.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “Final answer?”
“Final answer.”
He let out a sigh. “Okay, then. I think we’re done here.” He stood, grasping his notebook.
I felt a strange sense of panic. It was an abrupt ending, and it left me feeling off-kilter. But it’s not like I was about to ask him to stick around for more invasive questions.
I stood and ran a hand down my pencil skirt. “Okay. Well, thank you for your time.”
He hit me with his most charming smile and put out a hand. “My pleasure, Miss West.”
Our eyes met as we shook hands, and a little electric current zipped up my arm and into my chest.
I broke my hand away early and smiled politely.
His gaze lingered for a split-second. “You know what?” He set his notebook on the edge of my desk and pulled out the pencil. He scribbled on a blank page, but I couldn’t see what it said until he got near the end.
His number.
Grant Wilder was leaving me his phone number.
I shot an involuntary glance in the direction of Nick’s desk, then forced it back to Grant.
He tugged at the paper, and it ripped off the metal spirals, the edge chaotic and frayed. He held it out to me. “In case you change your mind. I think it could be a really great piece.”
I didn’t even manage to say goodbye before my office door closed behind him.