Chapter 9
NINE
Buyer’s remorse set in heavily on my walk back to the office.
It was fear-based, and I knew from experience that “returning my purchase” would only lead to two things:
I combatted my fears by digging in my heels and shooting an email to Vantive to let them know that, after further consideration, I would be continuing with Threadline after all. I was the female CEO of a cutting-edge tech company, for heaven’s sake.
Their response made it clear that I’d made the right choice and that their confidence in Matchify could only grow in parallel with Matchify’s confidence in itself. Reading between the lines wasn’t hard: this choice was what kept them interested in giving us our next round of funding.
And I had every intention of securing that funding, whatever—and whoever—it took.
Grant showed up in my office on Wednesday morning a few minutes after nine with a cardboard box of accoutrements in his arms, looking like he just got fired.
I clicked save on my nearly complete Matchify profile and turned to face him.
“Katie said I should set up shop in here,” he said.
It took me a second to register what he meant. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d want or need a workspace at Matchify. It should have. We weren’t exactly swimming in space, which was probably why Katie had told him he could be here.
No, nevermind.
That was way too generous an interpretation of what she’d done.
“She said all the workstations are taken,” he explained, “but that you have plenty of extra space on your desk.” His gaze flicked to what might as well have been miles and miles of neat, clutter-free office real estate. I had never regretted my clean desk so much.
There was inarguably space for this man and his cardboard box.
He set it down. “I promise not to bother you. I’ll leave when you have calls.” He pulled out his notebook and set it on the desk space in front of the chair that sat empty across from me. The notebook was followed by a pencil holder, a few sharpened pencils, and finally, a typewriter.
Like this was the 1950s.
“Does that come with an after-market silencer?” I asked. “Because otherwise, your promise not to bother me means nothing.”
He ran a hand along the top of the typewriter. “I’d never silence my baby.”
“Oh, but I would, Grant.”
He frowned. “I think you’ll find the sound of The Truth Machine’s gentle click-clack soothing.”
“I think you’ll find the sound of The Truth Machine being thrown in the garbage traumatizing. You can click-clack in one of the meeting rooms.”
“I don’t think those Affection Puffs are approved by the American Chiropractic Association. The Truth Machine needs a solid, level surface, or her s key sticks.”
“There are tables in the meeting rooms, Grant.”
“Katie said there’s a company policy against their being used for more than ninety minutes at a time.”
“I’d love to talk to Katie about this newfound passion for Matchify policy.” I could remember more than one occasion where she’d curled up in an Affection Puff for at least two and a half hours.
Grant sat down and got comfortable, tweaking the placement of his typewriter. “I’m sure that’ll be a fascinating discussion. Are you ready to get started? Your profile is itching to be filled out.”
“Already done,” I said a bit smugly.
He went still and looked at me.
I knew he’d be annoyed, but it had been a calculated move on my end. I didn’t need Grant looking over my shoulder while I tried to walk the tightrope of honest but restrained responses.
“We agreed I would watch the process from start to finish,” he said.
“You were there when I started the profile process. You even snooped on my answers. Now you can watch me press the submit button”—I grabbed my mouse and made a show of it—“and we can move forward.”
There it was. That laser-like gaze. It was part sniper-rifle, part X-ray machine—precise and penetrating.
“Fine,” he said, his voice energetic as he stood. “Let’s do that. Time for the matching process, right?”
A cold shock of fear slid down my spine, while three bright-white words flashed across my mind: No match found.
I shook them off. “That’s the next step, yes. But you can get settled first.”
“Done and done.” He grabbed his chair and pulled it around my L-shaped desk until it bumped mine.
Even without that jolt, the gesture was jarring. No one but me had sat behind this desk, and Grant wasn’t just sitting next to me. He leaned over so his elbow was on the armrest of my chair.
As conspicuously as possible, I looked down at his arm in my space.
He blinked his hazel eyes at me like nothing in the world was wrong.
I debated for a moment, then turned to my computer and navigated the app, ignoring the thumping of my heart as my cursor hovered over the Matchify Me! button.
“So, this is where the magic happens,” Grant said.
“It’s not magic,” I said. “It’s numbers.
Patterns. Data.” I forced myself to take a slow, even breath.
The likelihood of Matchify running my data and spitting me back out without a single match was as close to zero as it could be.
But it was one thing to know that in my head and another thing to keep my hands from shaking with nervous energy.
Meanwhile, the button waited for me to make that simple click of the mouse. But my finger wouldn’t move.
A few more seconds, and Grant would guess the truth: I was afraid of the app I had created—the one I was asking Vantive to invest millions in.
I clicked the button, my stomach queasy.
There. I’d done it. There was no putting the cat back in the bag. Why the cat was in my bag to begin with was a whole different matter.
But now I had to watch my results buffer. It was a new form of torture, watching the wheel turn and turn. Did it always take this long? I should let Jackie know.
“I admit,” Grant said, “I’m very curious to see how it will match someone with your profile.”
Someone with your profile.
The words cut, and I distracted myself by grabbing my coffee mug.
I had to grip the handle like a vice to keep it from trembling, and the cold liquid on my lips reminded me that, in my eagerness to get my profile filled out before Grant arrived, I hadn’t gotten my usual cup of coffee. This was yestercoffee.
Ugh.
I set down the mug, and it clattered slightly on re-entry.
Grant looked at me, always with that same crisp gaze that made me feel even more off-kilter. “You okay?”
“Yep!” The response was overkill, and I was pretty sure he knew it. “Just a little over-coffeed this morning.” Lies. I had one tiny sip of expired caffeine in my system, which was probably for the best. I was already more jittery than a junkie in withdrawal.
The progress bar spun and spun.
“Looks like it might be frozen,” I said.
“You’ve stumped it.”
My heart twisted into a giant knot as the screen changed, turning Matchify magenta.
I held my breath, waiting for the error message.
Matchification Complete.
My eyes darted to the results, where three names stared back at me.
Leo. Tanner. Jeff.
Beneath each name was the compatibility percentage Matchify had calculated.
Leo 76%. Tanner 71%. Jeff 70%.
Relief rushed over me like a warm shower.
Those percentages were definitely lower than I was used to seeing. But they were miles better than what had haunted my dreams.
Apparently, that was the bar for my love life: anything less terrifying than my nightmares was reason to cheer.
Not that I was tempted to cheer about Leo, Tanner, or Jeff. I didn’t know a thing about them, and the mere thought of going on a date with anyone was more likely to make me vomit than anything.
“Here, lemme help you.” Grant’s hand covered mine on the mouse, and a zing went straight up my arm and into my chest as he navigated to Leo’s name and clicked.
I shook off his hand. “Thank you. I’m capable of operating a mouse.”
“Are you? It looked like you’d frozen, and the suspense was killing me. Aren’t you ready to see Bachelor Number 1?”
I most certainly wasn’t. But I was even less ready to admit that to Grant.
My emotions were jumbled, and I couldn’t tell if I was more afraid that my matches would be awful or that one of them might actually be great. It had been a long time since I’d let myself contemplate being with someone.
Leo’s profile loaded, and my brows went up. So did Grant’s.
He was what many people might call…blessed.
Large, blue eyes, thick blond hair, tan skin that accentuated the white of his teeth, and a physique that made you wonder how much DNA he shared with Captain America.
“Huh,” Grant said.
“What?”
He shrugged. “Just not quite who I’d pictured you being matched with.”
I looked at Leo again. To be totally honest, he wasn’t what I’d have anticipated, either. But who was I to question the data?
“Director of Strategic Partnerships,” Grant read. He covered my hand again and clicked on one of the alternate photos Leo had provided. He was standing on the top of a peak overlooking a forest of pines, wearing a tank top and shorts. “He’s definitely strategically partnered with steroids.”
I threw off his hand again and shot him an annoyed look. “You’re making assumptions without data.”
“Or,” Grant said, “I’m drawing on experience and common sense. Let’s see Bachelor Number 2.”
I could’ve done with a bit more snooping around Leo’s profile, but I was equally interested in the other matches, so before Grant could commandeer my mouse hand again, I navigated to Tanner’s profile.
He was a brunette with slightly mussed hair and a wide, genuine smile. He looked young.
“Didn’t know Matchify supported cradle-robbing,” Grant said, voicing my thoughts.
“He’s 27,” I defended. “I’m 30.”
“He looks 18.”
“But he’s not. He probably takes really good care of his skin.”
“Or he just finished high school, realized how hard it is to earn money, and is looking for a sugar mama. Or a cougar.”
I jabbed him with an elbow. It met with a pack of solid abdominals that even Leo wouldn’t have sneered at. “Do you always assume the worst of people?”