Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Grant’s gaze fixed on me. “Are you okay?”
The concern in his eyes was genuine. Or maybe I was too whooped at this point to discern anything properly when it came to him.
I forced a smile. “Ship-shape. Just had a long week, you know?”
“It’s…Wednesday.”
“Exactly.”
He paused another second, looking at me like he had more questions. Of course he did. Grant wasn’t made up of trillions of cells but trillions of questions. “Okay. I can take you home.”
“Thanks.”
The ride home was quiet, and I stole a peek at him. His eyes were on the road, a slight furrow between his brows. Was the furrow because he was worried about me? Or because he was worried he hadn’t managed to achieve his goal of proving the algorithm wrong?
Maybe that was what was making me feel sick inside. Was the algorithm wrong? Or was I the problem? Maybe Grant and I were totally incompatible, but I was too dumb to know what was good for me.
I opened the text from Chase, holding my phone so it was shielded from Grant’s view.
I stared at the words. I’d always felt a strange mixture of hurt and determination looking at them, but this time, I only felt disappointment.
With all the hurt I’d gone through after the breakup with Chase, I’d held onto the promise I’d made to myself that the pain wouldn’t be in vain.
I’d never let it happen again. Never let myself be swept away on a tsunami of emotion, then left alone in the wreckage with nothing but my brain saying, You should’ve listened.
I’d managed to keep that promise for the past few years. Until now.
Until Grant.
And here I was, falling right back into the same trap, like a dog chasing its tail.
When we pulled up to my building, Grant got out to open my door.
He probably intended to walk me upstairs.
But I couldn’t do the whole door-after-the-date thing with him.
I had no idea whether he’d try to kiss me—the somber look on his face made me think not—but I was too weak to give the possibility the time of day.
“I can walk myself up,” I said.
I half-expected him to fight me on it. But he didn’t.
“Okay,” he said, his voice calm. “Thanks for the date, Vivian.”
“Thank you,” I said, offering a smile. “See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.”
As I went through the door into the elevator lobby, I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to let myself look back.
I fumbled to unlock my apartment and, once inside, I shut my eyes and let out a long sigh. I hated that I’d ended the date early. I’d waved a gigantic white flag. But the alternative would’ve been even more disastrous.
I set down my keys and noted the cardboard box with the dead plant Grant had given me.
I wanted to shove it in a garbage can, but I was too tired.
Instead, I went to my closet, pulled off my shoes and skirt, and traded them for my soft, black lounge set.
I should probably have gone to the gym and worked off some of these emotions, gotten some endorphins running in my system.
But I just wanted to veg out. I’d been lying about not being hungry. Resisting Grant Wilder was hard, deep work, and I was starving.
I pulled my hair out of its half-up do and clipped it back with a claw on my way to the kitchen, where I pulled stuff out of the fridge to make simple pasta.
I opened my laptop and set it on the counter with two spreadsheets side-by-side. Seeing numbers and neat lines always calmed me down. It restored needed order to the world.
The water reached a boil, and I poured an entire pound of penne pasta into it.
I’d been lying a lot when I’d said I wasn’t hungry.
The doorbell rang, and I froze.
I’d forgotten I had a doorbell. That was how often I had visitors.
Tucking the hair behind my ears, I walked over and cursed the lack of a peep hole. “Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s me.”
My heart shot into my throat at the sound of his voice. What was he doing here? I shut my eyes, took a slow breath, and opened the door.
Grant stood on my doorstep, a plastic bag in one hand, a brown bag in the other.
“I brought you dinner,” he said.
“Grant…”
“I planned out a date for us, Vivian, and part of that was dinner. So, I’m bringing it to you to enjoy. If you’ll give me ten seconds to clean off my pants and let me borrow a rag, I’ll get out of your hair.” His eyes swept to it like he’d said it without thinking.
I glanced at his pants, which had a generous smear across the thigh. It looked and smelled like tikka masala.
“Yeah, of course,” I said, moving aside for him to pass through.
“The curry launched a full-scale attack in the car,” he explained, carrying the plastic bag gingerly. In one corner sat a puddle of terra cotta colored sauce.
I hurried to the kitchen and pulled out a rag, wetting it in the sink as Grant followed me in. Just the presence of him in my kitchen had me panicking mildly. I didn’t have guests over. Like, ever. When I hung out with my friends, it was always at Brooke’s or Katie’s.
I brought the rag to Grant and watched his eyes take in the big pot of boiling pasta.
Desperate to explain why I was making a giant batch of it after insisting I wasn’t hungry, I blurted, “I’m meal prepping.”
He smiled slightly and took the rag. “Right.” He didn’t believe me for a second.
Why did I ever bother lying to Grant? He knew I wasn’t a meal prepper. I ordered in lunch every single day at work. It’s how he knew I loved Indian food.
He worked at the stain on his pants, but my poor wet rag didn’t stand a chance against vibrant Indian spices on khaki. I probably should have offered to let him wash them, but letting Grant remove his clothing in my house wasn’t something even my tired, Grant-sick brain could justify.
“That’ll do for now.” He stood straight and looked at the rag. “Mind if I rinse this and take it to my car? The seats didn’t come out unscathed. I’ll wash it and bring it to you tomorrow.”
“Take a fresh one.” I took the dirty rag from him and set it next to the sink. The pasta was about to boil over, so I turned the gas knob to low and grabbed a new rag from the drawer. I ran it under the faucet, then squeezed it out until it was damp instead of dripping.
When I turned toward Grant, he was looking at me in the same way he’d done earlier. The way that threw all of my body systems off-kilter.
I ignored every glitching vital sign and walked over to hand him the rag.
He took it and looked down at it, his thumbs tracing a pattern. “Do you know why I took you to do resin art?”
“To remind me how bad I am at anything creative?”
He didn’t laugh at my joke, but his gaze came up to meet mine. “Resin art is chemistry.”
The word took me back to the parking garage, and a flood of heat weaved through me.
“The resin and the hardener create a chemical reaction. The combination doesn’t explode or fizzle out.
It cures and turns into something strong.
Something permanent and lasting. Something stable.
” He held my gaze. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.
“Chemistry doesn’t have to hurt, Vivian. ”
I was horrified to feel my eyes stinging.
He took a step toward me, but I stepped back.
“You can stop now.”
His brow knit. “What?”
“Challenging the algorithm. Challenging me. You’ve proven your point. You’ve done your job. And I just need…a break. You probably do too.”
It was quiet as he looked at me. “Is that what you think all of this is? Taking you to Swirl, bringing you dinner? That this is my attempt to challenge Matchify?”
I laughed incredulously. “Yes, Grant. That is what I think. Because you told me that’s what it is.”
He set the damp rag on the island and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’re right. I did tell you that. You know why?” His hand dropped, and he looked at me squarely. “Because I’ve been fighting for my life here, Vivian. My life and my job.”
I stayed still and silent, unsure what he was trying to say.
“I’ve made some mistakes in my career,” he said, “but I’ve never ever fallen for a subject before.”
Heat surged up my neck, but I shook my head and took another step back.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
My back hit the island, and I gripped it behind me—something cold and solid in this unbearably hot, upside-down world. “Because, Grant. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why not? Because Matchify told you it doesn’t?”
“No,” I said hotly. “Because I’ve watched you with my own eyes. Asking out Jill—in the donut shop I showed you. Flirting with Jenna—in front of my eyes in my office.”
He gripped his hands together and brought them to his forehead in a sort of frustrated prayer. They dropped, and he looked at me again. “Vivian. Do you have any idea how many maple donuts I’ve eaten in the past week?” He waited for an answer.
I shook my head. How was I supposed to know? He’d gone out with a donut-maker, for heaven’s sake. For all I knew, they’d gorged themselves on maple bars all night between makeout sessions.
He shut his eyes. “Just…so many. I could keel over any second, and the coroner would have no problem identifying the cause of death as a maple donut overdose.”
“I don’t think that’s—”