Page 83 of No Match Found
“Yeah, of course,” I said, moving aside for him to pass through.
“The curry launched a full-scale attack in the car,” heexplained, carrying the plastic bag gingerly. In one corner sat a puddle of terra cotta colored sauce.
I hurried to the kitchen and pulled out a rag, wetting it in the sink as Grant followed me in. Just the presence of him in my kitchen had me panicking mildly. I didn’t have guests over. Like, ever. When I hung out with my friends, it was always at Brooke’s or Katie’s.
I brought the rag to Grant and watched his eyes take in the big pot of boiling pasta.
Desperate to explain why I was making a giant batch of it after insisting I wasn’t hungry, I blurted, “I’m meal prepping.”
He smiled slightly and took the rag. “Right.” He didn’t believe me for a second.
Why did I ever bother lying to Grant? He knew I wasn’t a meal prepper. I ordered in lunch every single day at work. It’s how he knew I loved Indian food.
He worked at the stain on his pants, but my poor wet rag didn’t stand a chance against vibrant Indian spices on khaki. I probably should have offered to let him wash them, but letting Grant remove his clothing in my house wasn’t something even my tired, Grant-sick brain could justify.
“That’ll do for now.” He stood straight and looked at the rag. “Mind if I rinse this and take it to my car? The seats didn’t come out unscathed. I’ll wash it and bring it to you tomorrow.”
“Take a fresh one.” I took the dirty rag from him and set it next to the sink. The pasta was about to boil over, so I turned the gas knob to low and grabbed a new rag from the drawer. I ran it under the faucet, then squeezed it out until it was damp instead of dripping.
When I turned toward Grant, he was looking at me in the same way he’d done earlier. The way that threw all of my body systems off-kilter.
I ignored every glitching vital sign and walked over to hand him the rag.
He took it and looked down at it, his thumbs tracing a pattern. “Do you know why I took you to do resin art?”
“To remind me how bad I am at anything creative?”
He didn’t laugh at my joke, but his gaze came up to meet mine. “Resin art is chemistry.”
The word took me back to the parking garage, and a flood of heat weaved through me.
“The resin and the hardener create a chemical reaction. The combination doesn’t explode or fizzle out. It cures and turns into something strong. Something permanent and lasting. Something stable.” He held my gaze. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I’d ever heard it. “Chemistry doesn’t have to hurt, Vivian.”
I was horrified to feel my eyes stinging.
He took a step toward me, but I stepped back.
“You can stop now.”
His brow knit. “What?”
“Challenging the algorithm. Challengingme. You’ve proven your point. You’ve done your job. And I just need…a break. You probably do too.”
It was quiet as he looked at me. “Is that what you think all of this is? Taking you to Swirl, bringing you dinner? That this is my attempt to challenge Matchify?”
I laughed incredulously. “Yes, Grant. Thatiswhat I think. Because youtoldme that’s what it is.”
He set the damp rag on the island and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’re right. I did tell you that. You know why?” His hand dropped, and he looked at me squarely. “Because I’ve been fighting for my life here, Vivian. My life and my job.”
I stayed still and silent, unsure what he was trying to say.
“I’ve made some mistakes in my career,” he said, “but I’ve never ever fallen for a subject before.”
Heat surged up my neck, but I shook my head and took another step back.
“Why are you shaking your head?”
My back hit the island, and I gripped it behind me—something cold and solid in this unbearably hot, upside-down world. “Because, Grant. It doesn’t make any sense.”
