Chapter 8
EIGHT
I was never late. I showed up for meetings between two and five minutes early.
I was making an exception for Grant Wilder and planned to show up six minutes late.
It was Katie’s idea—a power move to set the stage for this next phase of Threadline’s exploration of Matchify. I’d seen the value in it and agreed.
But I’d underestimated habit.
When I showed up, it was 11:57.
Chase was right. I was too intense. I couldn’t even show up late on purpose for a business lunch.
I debated going inside, but Katie had made me solemnly swear to stick with the six-minute parameter on pain of death. “It’s not so late that it’s rude, but he’ll definitely check his watch and wonder if you’re going to show.”
Grinding my teeth, I slipped between two topiaries to count down nine interminable minutes.
I watched for his arrival from my topiary fortress and caught sight of him at noon on the dot. Through the window, I watched Grant talk to the hostess, who shook her head, then led him to a table for two.
Table for two. The phrase glitched in my brain, and I wondered if I should’ve chosen a more stark, less mood-lit location for our business lunch. Given the good food and proximity to Matchify offices, this had become our go-to place, but I was second-guessing everything at this point.
Grant looked over the menu for a minute, then glanced up.
Heart hammering, I retreated into the topiary and waited a second before peeking back inside.
His focus was back in the menu.
I checked my phone. 12:03.
How did people do this? It was torture.
To be fair, most people didn’t do exactly this. They waltzed in late like nobody’s time but theirs mattered.
Why had I listened to Katie? She always had the most hare-brained ideas that worked out fine when she did them but weren’t meant for people like me.
I put my phone back in my purse, determined not to look at it until it was time.
When my gaze came back up, Grant’s seat was empty.
Had he gone to the bathroom? Left because he’d given up on me?
Not likely after just three minutes.
“What’re we watching?”
I spun around and came nose-to-nose with Grant.
He didn’t bother backing up. Instead, he looked over my shoulder, craning his neck to see what I’d been looking at.
“I was…making a call,” I said, forcing composure into a shaking voice. “Should we go inside?”
With a glimmer of a smile that told me he wasn’t buying my excuse, he put his hand out, inviting me to lead the way.
I shut my eyes, willing the burn in my cheeks to subside before we got to the table. I was an accomplished businesswoman. I had two degrees and owned my own company. Why did I feel like a 13-year-old tripping in gym class when Grant was around?
“I was wondering if you’d changed your mind again,” he said as we took our seats.
“I assured you that wouldn’t happen, didn’t I?”
“You did. But you also assured me you had no interest in pursuing my editor’s idea, so…you can understand why I went with the cancelable option for my return flight.”
My lips pressed together, but the waitress came to take our drink orders, so I was denied the chance to snap back. Probably for the best, since I had no quippy retort. I always regretted it when I responded emotionally.
“Should we discuss specifics?” I asked. “What exactly do you and your editor envision?”
He set his menu down and sat back in his chair, making me ultra-aware of my rigid posture.
“The vision is for me to observe the whole process—from the app end of things to the dates themselves. And then a debrief after each one to get your take.”
I shoved down the whispers of panic this vision generated.
“Does that conflict with the terms you mentioned?” he asked.
“It might. It might not.”
“Let’s hear the terms, then. I’m sure we can come to an agreement that works for Threadline and Matchify.”
I tucked the stray hairs behind my ears.
Grant clocked the gesture, and I realized why as my left hand came into contact with something that was definitely not my hair. I threaded it out and looked at the little topiary leaf.
He said nothing.
“First and foremost,” I said, letting the leaf loose at my side where Grant couldn’t see, “your piece is about Matchify, not me. I may be the lens through which Threadline is looking at Matchify, but the main focus needs to be on the app.”
He nodded.
“On that same note,” I continued, “this isn’t a documentary. No cameras, no mics.”
“Agreed.”
“Good. Next, this project has to have a clear end date—for your sake and mine. Four dates is my limit.”
It had taken the persuasive powers of Brooke, Katie, and Jackie for me to agree to that number. I’d wanted to cap it at two.
“Then it’s also my limit.”
“And obviously, the men will be informed they’re being observed.”
“Obviously.”
I’d expected more pushback from him, to be honest. I was starting to feel like a villain with all my demands. But I wasn’t finished.
“And,” I said, “Matchify gets to review the final draft of the article.”
There it was. No immediate response this time—I’d found the sticking point.
Grant evaluated me, eyes slightly narrowed. “What do you mean by review?”
“Are you familiar with the word?”
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I am. What I’m not familiar with is what you mean by the word.”
The fact that he was hung up on this point was telling, in my opinion. Being so resistant to letting Matchify see the piece before it was published made it fairly clear that he suspected we wouldn’t like it.
“I mean,” I said, “that I’m not walking into a potential hit-piece with a blindfold on. Matchify would like to see the article before publication.”
“See it? Or approve it?”
“Ideally, approve it.”
He shook his head. “That’s not on the table.
” He tapped his thumb on the tablecloth, looking at me.
“The only person with that privilege is my editor, and even that grates me. If I don’t have my journalistic integrity, I have nothing.
Now,” he said before I could argue, “I have no problem letting you see the article prior to pressing publish. But seeing it is the line, and it’s a very thick, solid line.
I need that to be very clear. Can you handle that? ”
Handle it. It was another subtle challenge.
“Provided we’re clear on the fact that I’m not an open book for you to riffle through and that I’m doing this purely as a Matchify demonstration, I foresee no problems. Can you handle that?”
The edges of his lips turned down. “So, what? All optics? No honesty?”
A mocking laugh burst through my lips. “This coming from the man who lied on his Matchify profile?”
“I was testing the system.”
“Mmhmm. How about this? I’ll be as honest and vulnerable as you are, Grant.” I was calling his bluff, and I could tell from the way he was looking at me that he simultaneously disliked and respected it.
The waitress came to take our orders, preventing conversation for a few minutes. When she’d left, Grant and I sized each other up.
“Do you mean that?” he asked. “That you’ll be as honest and vulnerable as I am?”
I took a sip from my water to buy time as I tried to think through the intent behind that question. It was tempting to learn more about Grant Wilder—to get some of that handsome skin in the game, as Brooke had said—but at what cost to myself?
Or was he messing with me again? I wasn’t under the impression he was about to start spilling his deepest secrets just to get at mine.
He smiled at my hesitation. “Don’t make offers you can’t follow through on, Miss West.”
“Then make me an offer that’s as appealing to me as it is to you.”
His brows knit, but his eye contact never broke. The confidence in that gaze verged on a superpower. I could imagine him as a kid, getting into trouble at school but staring down the principal—maybe even digging into the principal’s past until he was let off the hook.
“Surely you can see the mismatch in the stakes you’re offering,” I said. “My vulnerability gets thrown to the public on Threadline’s website. What does yours cost you?”
He rested his elbows on the table, his forefingers making a steeple, which he pressed against his lips.
I’d learned not to be the first to look away in situations like this, but I’d have been lying to myself if I said it wasn’t harder than usual. I was determined not to let Grant Wilder see me squirm, though. Not now. Not ever.
Our salads were set in front of us, and we both thanked the waitress without letting our gazes veer.
“How about this?” Grant sat back. “For every question you answer truthfully, I’ll answer one truthfully.”
I frowned. “I don’t see how that changes anything. You’re still not risking anything.”
“Neither would you be. These questions and answers would be off the record.”
Was this a trap? It seemed like a trap. “To what end? If you’re not getting fodder for your piece, why would you want my answers?”
“Weren’t you the one who said that sometimes answers are a proxy? That you can learn a lot about someone by the way they answer and how long it takes them?” He lifted his shoulders. “I’m curious about you.”
A flutter kicked low in my stomach while a prickle of heat burned my neck. I reached for my fork.
“So, what do you say?”
I gathered the greens on my plate, taking my time to respond.
Grant was offering me a peek into his brain in exchange for a peek into mine—no metaphorical public disrobing required.
It was as tantalizing as it was terrifying.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to ask him the most difficult questions he never wanted to answer.
But he’d do the same to me.
The sheer range of questions he might come up with made my legs quiver under the table like overcooked noodles.
He shrugged. “If you’re too scared, it’s fine.”
I cocked a brow. “Do you always default to manipulation when women don’t hand over their secrets?”
He chuckled and ate a mouthful of salad.
I wanted so badly to see this man thrown off his game, but that meant inching toward vulnerability with someone who made a living out of poking around every tender area he could find. But backing out?
That meant blinking first. And I’d promised myself not to do that.
“Fine,” I said. “One question a day. I don’t have time to play truth or dare ping pong all day long.”
“Truth or dare,” he said, intrigued. “Now, there’s an idea.”
I didn’t even dignify the blatant provocation with a response. I was rethinking the terms I was offering. It still felt too dangerous. “A question a day. One pass each. Completely off the record. Take it or leave it.”
“Take it,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation.
His eagerness was unsettling, like he wanted to cash in on my offer before I could realize my mistake.
“Start on Wednesday?” I suggested. I wasn’t ready to open myself up just yet. I needed time to think of questions and to mentally prepare for the ones he might ask me. Given what I’d experienced of Grant so far, they wouldn’t be run-of-the-mill.
“Wednesday sounds perfect. We can get your profile finished and see who Matchify throws your way.”
I nodded, but inside, my stomach was roiling. As far as I could figure, I had at least a 70% chance of regretting today’s choices.
But if Grant planned on peeling back my layers like an onion, I fully intended on making him pay for it in tears.