“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 shopIshowed you. Flirting with Jenna—in front of my eyes inmyoffice.”
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?—”
“The point is,” he interrupted, “when you saw me at the donut shop, it was not my first solo visit. I’ve loved maple bars my whole life. My mom and I used to make them at home. But I’ll never eat, see, or smell one again without thinking of you, Vivian. That night when you found me at the donut shop, I’d gone there out of some twisted, emo plan to eat my way out of my feelings for you. Falling for you goes against everything I stand for as a supposedly objective journalist. Jill happened to be there, and she wasn’t shy about being interested in me.Iwas desperate for a route for my mind that didn’t lead straight to you. So, yes, I went out with her. I probably enjoyed it as much as you enjoyed your date with Leo. And I did it for the same reason I stopped asking you questions.” He stepped toward me, his gaze pinning me in place in ways the solid island behind me couldn’t manage. “Because every question I ask, every second I spend near you digs me deeper in the hole of this growing…obsession.”
I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head.
“Stop shaking your head, Vivian,” he said with exasperation. “It’s the truth.”
I shook it again. “It’s not.”
He grimaced.
“Whatever youthinkyou feel for me right now…it won’t last, Grant. It just won’t. Trust me.”
He scoffed and turned his head, shaking it as he stared at some random point in my kitchen.
I willed myself to be calm and silent, to stand my ground when all I actually wanted was for him to tell me to shut up because I was wrong.
Finally, he looked at me squarely, evaluating me. “Lemme try this a different way.” He took a step toward me, then used a finger to tip my chin up so I had no choice but to look at him. Then he took my face in his hands. They were warm and soft against my cheeks. “Does any part of you want me, Vivian?”
Hands to my sides like I’d been invisibly swaddled, I stared at him.
It wasn’t a fair question.
He was playing dirty now.
Ofcoursepart of me wanted him. Many parts. Most, even.
But many parts of me also wanted other things I shouldn’t have. Cheesecake for breakfast. Cutting my own bangs. Responding to annoying emails with a passive aggressive “k.” Tapping on click-bait. Sending the Forbes article that mentioned me and Matchify to everyone who’d ever doubted me.
The silence stretched, and Grant spoke again, his voice softer this time. “Have I just been seeing what I want to see?”
I clenched my eyes shut. Why did he have to askthatquestion?
Could I make him think he’d believed a lie again? That he’d misinterpreted me when he’d seen through me with such maddening ease?
No.
I couldn’t do that to him. Even if he wouldn’t immediately know that I was lying, which he would. He always did.
But I couldn’t bring myself to say the truth aloud either.
Heart snapping against my ribs like a rubber band, I lifted a hand and brushed my fingers against the ones on my cheek—just enough to close the space between our hands.
It wasn’t much—a tentative, cowardly admission, but an admission all the same.
He let out a shaky breath, and I opened my eyes slowly, terrified to look at him but even more terrifiednotto see his reaction.
His eyes raked over my face for a few seconds, then dipped to my mouth. They lingered there like he was giving me one last chance to pull away.
