Grant evaluated me, eyes slightly narrowed. “What do you mean byreview?”
“Are you familiar with the word?”
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I am. What I’m not familiar with is whatyoumean 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 youseethe 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 handlethat?”
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 hislips.
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.”
