Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
I shut my eyes and rubbed my temples. I was glad the call was over. Grant hadn’t returned yet, and I got up to look for him, eager to know his boss’s reaction.
I found him in the Darcy it only seemed fair to return the favor.
I turned decisively, snatched my purse from my office, and headed to Dawson’s at a pace that could’ve qualified me for the stiletto speed-walking Olympics.
If donuts couldn’t fix this day, nothing could.
Mr. Dawson, not Jill, was behind the counter when I arrived, a much-needed win after a hellish morning. His cheeks were red and his forehead glistened with sweat as he smiled at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes.
“I’ll be right with you, Miss West,” he said, scurrying out of view to the back.
A couple minutes later, he re-emerged, balancing two trays of fresh donuts.
“Sorry,” he said breathlessly.
I smiled. “No need to apologize when you’re bringing out fresh maple bars. I’ll take two, please. Actually…make it four.”
He gave a polite sound of acknowledgement.
“Busy?” I asked.
His eyes widened as if to say you have no idea as he set the trays in the display case. “I’m grateful for it, of course, but I’d be even more grateful if I had some help.”
“Where’s Jill?”
He frowned. “She had to…go home.”
“Oh,” I said, annoyed at the way this revelation didn’t bother me in the least.
Grant was sitting in his chair in my office when I got back, but he wasn’t typing or scribbling his shorthand. He was staring ahead, spinning his pencil in his fingers distractedly.
He turned, and his eyes dropped to the box. He stood and came over to me. “You, Vivian, are an angel.” And then he pressed his lips to my cheek.
I was so surprised, I didn’t even respond. It was just a kiss on the cheek, but it felt so intimate. So…settled. The sort of greeting we’d give after one of us came home from work.
He picked a maple bar from the box. “Are you okay? Oh, right. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. It was instinctual. I won’t let it happen again.”
I want it to happen again.
I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. He was trying—and failing at times—to give me the space I’d asked for. But I didn’t actually want space anymore. I just wanted him.
“How’d it go with Vantive?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the desk and taking a bite of his donut.
“Not great,” I said. “They’re…concerned.”
“About what specifically?”
“Negative publicity.” It was ironic, really. I was the one with everything on the line here. This wasn’t just Matchify’s future we were talking about. It was mine.
“According to some, there’s no such thing as negative publicity.”
“Well, Vantive would heartily disagree given the outcome of their last encounter with it.”
“What outcome was that?” Grant asked.
I recounted the story of the wellness company and the livestreamed breakup. “But that’s not all they’re worried about. The implication was also that our…” I gestured between us, struggling to find the word for what had been happening between Grant and me.
“Tanner called it a love story,” Grant suggested with faux innocence.
“Our connection,” I said, “throws doubt on the effectiveness of Matchify. So, things are looking great, as you can see. How was your call?” I bit into my maple bar, feeling strangely unbothered by the looming storm approaching. Maybe it was the sense of shared doom.
“Tense,” Grant said. “Russ had already seen the TikTok and the article, and the only reason I hadn’t heard from him is because he was busy talking with The Sentinel.”
I paused my chewing. “Wait…The Sentinel?”
He nodded and finished his maple bar.
“Talking about what?”
He chewed and wiped his hands with a napkin. “They want me to write an exclusive. My first-hand take on Matchify, our romance, and the broken algorithm, as they referred to it.”
My maple bar hovered halfway to my mouth. “Oh.” I set down the donut, my appetite vanishing.
Grant crumpled up the napkin and tossed it into the garbage, then looked at me. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head quickly. “Nothing.”
“Vivian. We’ve been over this. You’re a bad liar.”
“No, I’m not. You’re just…ridiculously perceptive.”
“Either way, what’s wrong?”
I didn’t respond immediately. Grant’s dream was to write for The Sentinel. He was being given that chance now.
But it meant throwing Matchify under the bus. And me too.
He watched me, his concerned look growing. “I’m not going to write it, Vivian.”
I didn’t respond. It felt like déjà vu. Grant giving up an opportunity for my sake. Not just an opportunity. The opportunity.
And for what? Vantive already had cold feet. That damage was done. Matchify might not receive the funding we wanted and needed, but Grant’s career dreams could still be salvaged.
“You should write it,” I said, but my voice sounded strangled.
He got up, came around the desk, and put out his hand.
After a second’s hesitation, I took it, and he pulled me up to face him.
He looked me straight in the eye. “I’m not writing it.”
My eyes stung, partially from the feeling of my work world collapsing on me but mostly because I was touched—down to my bones—by Grant’s willingness to forgo what could be the biggest move of his career.
“It’s your dream, Grant. Matchify’s already going to the dogs. Someone should benefit from the carnage.”
He studied me for a minute. “Do you think that’s what I want? To profit from your pain?”
“No. But that wouldn’t be why you were doing it. You’d be doing it for your career. And with my permission. I’m the last person who’d judge you for making the smart career choice.”
It was true. I’d made a lot of hard decisions on my journey to this office.
But another thing was also true: I didn’t want Grant to write the article. I wanted his success, of course, but I was selfish enough to not want my company and my personal life to be the collateral damage.
Grant’s phone rang, and he pulled it out and sighed. “It’s Russ again.”
“Take it,” I said. I could use a minute to gather myself, assuming such a thing was possible.
He lingered for a second, then stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
I box-breathed my heart out for the next few minutes, but the cardboard was warped and flimsy, like a moving box that’d been used one too many times.
Grant came back in sooner than I’d thought, and the look on his face was…harassed and grim.
“I’m being summoned back to New York. Russ is set on convincing me to do the article. I’ve been clear that I won’t do it, so he’s insisting I come back and do damage control. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’ll be able to convince me in person.”
I let out my final box breath, and it quivered like a square of Jell-O someone had flicked.
Grant was leaving. I couldn’t even conceptualize that. I’d lived life—the vast majority of it—without Grant Wilder. But that had been before I’d known he existed.
Now, his existence was all I could think about. It was plastered all over my office, from the resin art tray and the rings from where he’d set his coffee mug every day to the lack of keyboard clacking when he was gone.
“When do you leave?” I managed.
“He wants me on the next flight out, which is in”—he glanced at his phone—“three hours.”
“But it’s Friday.” A sense of panic bloomed in my chest. “You won’t even arrive until the work day is almost over.”
“I said the same thing, but he was insistent. He’s upset. Says I should plan to be in the office all weekend.” He came over to me. “I’ll be back, though. As soon as I can. We’ll fix things with Vantive.”
I nodded, trying to ignore the chaos in my stomach, like someone had unleashed a box of insects inside me.
Grant put up a hand like he was about to set it on my cheek, but he checked the impulse and let it drop to his side. “I’ll be back.”
And then he was gone.