It wouldn’t come to that if I had anything to say about it.
Grant Wilder would leave in three days with two things: respect for Matchify and a total lack of anything he could use to hurt us.
FOUR
The next morning,I grabbed Cam Carter by his pancake-like bicep and pulled him out of the Darcy & Elizabeth room. Brooke had called Cam a morale booster; yesterday, he felt like a direct threat to my being taken seriously as a CEO. The life-size celebrity cardboard cutout gave off tween-with-One-Direction-posters-plastered-all-over-her-room vibes.
It was ten minutes until my next interview with Grant, and I wasn’t taking any chances this time. I headed straight for the door on the right wall. I opened it to a whiff of bleach and ammonia. The dark room was full of brooms and vacuums and garbage bags, so making room for the wide base of the cutout took a bit of finagling.
Once I got Cam standing straight, I stepped out of the closet, shut the door, and dusted off my hands.
“Miss West?”
I whirled around to find Jenna and Grant approaching.
Guilty heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks like a beaker on a Bunsen burner.
The only thing worse than having Cam Carter’s cardboard form in my office was having Grant witness me shoving it into a closet. The best business handshake in the world couldn’t unring that bell.
Grant’s eyes flicked to the closet door, then back to me, his expression unreadable.
“I paged you in your office,” Jenna said, her tone a mixture of apology and self-justification, “and when you weren’t there, Mr. Wilder suggested coming to find you.”
Iforced a smile. Why was I not surprised? Grant was technically early, but I wouldn’t be shocked if that was his M.O.: duck in on clients a few minutes before he was expected, hoping to find them in compromising situations like stuffing a celebrity into a closet full of chemicals generally found at crime scenes.
“Good morning,” Grant said pleasantly.
The top buttons of his collared shirt were undone, just like last time, and my hands itched to do them up. His shirt was a button-up, but since it was beige and made of a canvas-like material and his pants were olive-green khaki slacks, there was no fear of mistaking him for a starched-up businessman.
And yet, the man oozed careless confidence.
“Why don’t we run to my office before we start our tour?” I suggested. “I have a few things for you.”
A look of intrigued surprise flashed through his eyes. “It’s not even my birthday.”
I smiled courteously at his dumb joke. “Shall we?”
He put out his hand as if to sayafter you, and I led the way.
Once we reached my office, I stopped at the edge of my desk. “My marketing manager put together some materials for you.”
There were two infographic sheets about Matchify—one for promotion to app users, the other with business stats and numbers for potential investors and partnerships. Next to them was some swag: a Rubik’s cube with our logo andLet our algorithm do the solvingprinted on one side, a heart-shaped stress ball, and a vivid magenta T-shirt that saidStatistically speaking, you’re my type.
Grant picked up the heart-shaped stress ball and gave it a squeeze, making the muscles in his forearm flex. “Are you trying to butter me up, Miss West? Wining and dining me?”
“If a stress ball is what you consider wining and dining, you might need our app more than I thought.”
His mouth pulled into a grin, and he set down the ball and picked up the T-shirt. He held it up in front of him, and I clenched my teeth.
“I can have Brooke get you one size up,” I said. “Or two.”
He looked down at the shirt that would barely contain his body. “That might be for the best. And if you have it in a coral pink, it’s a much better color on me than this one.”
I privately thought the shirt color suited him just fine, which was impressive, given how feminine most would think it. “Coral isn’t one of Matchify’s brand colors, so I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for magenta.”
“Can’t have everything, I guess.” He set down the shirt. “Haven’t had your coffee yet today?”
My brows drew together. Was that an insult?
