Page 92 of No Match Found
“What happened to giving me space?” I asked, ignoring the thrill I felt at being so close to him and the balm it was to my overactive assumption generator.
His eyes roved over my face, darkening in a way that made my pulse race. “Thisisme giving you space. In my mind, I’ve got one hand on the small of your back and the other threaded through your hair right now.”
My vision wobbled as the doors to the parking garage opened.
“So, where are we headed?” Grant asked, stepping out like he hadn’t just wreaked havoc on my respiratory system.
“To get cookies for the employees,” I said, picking up the scattered pieces of my composure.
“Cookies?” he repeated as we walked to my car. “Why not donuts?”
“I just…thought I’d try something different.”
He looked at me through narrowed eyes but didn’t press for more of a response as we walked through the lot—yet another experience to solidify the connection my brain had formed between Grant and parking garages.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
And I wanted him to. I wanted him to want to. My heart wanted every possible piece of evidence that Grant was as into me as I was into him. My heart was busy gathering data toconfirm the hypothesis while my brain was on constant lookout for any data to counter it.
Once we reached his car, he went to my door.
“Grant,” I said as he opened it, “I’m not so fragile I can’t drive or open my own doors.”
He stepped between me and the passenger seat, his gaze fixing on mine. “When have I ever made you believe I think you’re fragile?”
I tried and failed to come up with an example.
“I don’t open your doors or offer to drive because I think you’re weak. I do it because I see firsthand how hard you work and how much pressure you put on yourself to make sure others are taken care of, and I think you deserve to be taken care of sometimes too. Do you want me to stop?”
Heart sputtering, I shook my head, and he moved out of my way.
Once the door was shut, I blinked to get rid of the stinging in my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat.
I’d been the CEO of Matchify for a few years, but for some reason, I’d never considered how much pressure I felt being in charge, making final decisions, and acting as the face of the company. When things went wrong—as they often did—I was the one ultimately on the hook, no matter whose fault it was. I had twenty-eight employees relying on my ability to steer the Matchify ship through whatever storms and squalls we faced.
It was an honor to be trusted with that.
It was also a crazy amount of pressure and responsibility.
It felt good to be taken care of, even in the small ways Grant was offering.
The cookie shop was a ten-minute drive, but since I got a call from Jeanine at Vantive, there was no time for Grant and me to talk.
She wanted clarification on the second quarter numbers I’d sent them a few days ago. She also asked how things were going with the Threadline story.
I shot a glance at Grant, who was pulling into a parking space at the cookie shop. How in the world was I supposed to answer that question? “It’s going…well.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jeanine responded. “We’re getting anxious to see the result.”
When I hung up a minute later, the car was off, and Grant was staring at the keys in his hand. He looked up at me.
The look on his face sent a jolt of nerves through me. It was so somber.
“I can’t write it.”
