Page 68 of No Match Found
But the way he looked at me…it made it seem like he didn’t trust the data aboutus.
His focus shifted behind me. “Hey.” He pointed the key fob over my shoulder, and a pair of headlights blinked. “The Corolla lives.”
TWENTY
I was starting to spiral.
Not out of control. This was a tighter and tighter spiral, like I was whipping around in a tornado, heading toward the point of touchdown. And I knew exactly what was there: Grant.
The follow-up to my date night with Leo had given increased momentum to the tornado. It had me whipping around and around in a terrifying way. And the knowledge of the destruction I’d experience if I continued on my path? It would make Mentos and Pepsi look like a glass of spilled water.
One thing could help me get back on track: a Saturday in the office. Without Grant.
I set the brown paper bag on my desk—Grant had insisted on sending me home with the maple bars when he’d dropped me off last night—then took my seat and got straight to work.
I had a dozen emails in my inbox and five tasks on my to-do list, which meant plenty of focused work. That was where my brain thrived.
Usually.
My eyes kept flicking to the donut bag. Iwashungry, but this was more than that. I’d brought the donuts so they wouldn’t go to waste, but now they were in direct conflict with my plan for the day: think about anything other than Grant. Every time I saw them or smelled them, I heard what he’d said last night about a love for maple bars being the foundation of any successful relationship.
Add in his comment about not putting any stock in the 12% Matchify score and the new question that had been zoomingaround my brain like a pesky fly: who had Grant matched with, and did he plan to go out with those matches?
I could see him waving them off with his cynicism.
But I could also see him feeling himself bound to follow up as “research.”
Gosh, I hated research.
My hold on myself was circling the drain.
Every time I looked away from my computer screen, my gaze would slip to the donuts, then to the silent Truth Machine and Grant’s vacant seat. My brain had no trouble at all filling that space with an image of him leaning back, his hands clasped behind his head as he looked over what he’d just typed.
Gritting my teeth, I forced my focus back to an email from Nick.
I managed to get through over half of my emails before I snapped. I stood up, grabbed the donut bag, and dangled them over the garbage can like the Ring of Power over the Cracks of Doom.
But throwing away perfectly good maple bars felt like an unpardonable crime.
I grasped the folded bag top more tightly, then reached for my purse, and headed out of the office.
I gifted the bag of donuts to a homeless man on the corner and headed to Dawson’s. Maple bars had become far too influential in my life. I probably didn’t even like them that much compared to all the other neglected donut varieties. Maybe I was a pink sprinkles person. Or an emerging apple fritter lover.
I wrinkled my nose, but hey, it was possible.
The thing to do was buy one of every donut Dawson’s offered. Then I could make a systematic review of the options, examine the data, and figure out which one I actually liked most. If I really wanted to make this reliable, I could even blindfold myself.
That was normal, right? A blindfolded, self-administered donut taste test?
When I reached Dawson’s, I grabbed the door handle, then went still.
Behind the counter was a young woman I recognized as Mr. Dawson’s niece, Jill. She came to visit every now and then and helped in the shop. She was young, pretty, and smiley. Just now, she was laughing as she looked at the customer across the counter.
That customer was Grant.
My heart clenched, and my grip on the door handle loosened.
The feeling in the pit of my stomach was ridiculous. Did I have some claim on Grant’s smile? On the contractions of the muscles in his face?
