I sat down and cleared my computer screen, then pulled up my go-to spreadsheet with some of Matchify’s most impressivenumbers. I let my eyes run over them quickly even though I was intimately familiar with them.
Brooke was right. Wewouldshow well.
Her head popped back into view, eyes glittering with that happy energy unique to her. “I brought you moral support.” She slid a large cardboard cutout into the open door frame.
The lifeless but handsome smiling man staring at me was Hollywood heartthrob Cam Carter. On his white shirt, Brooke had Sharpie’d our company tagline in magenta:Data meets destiny.
“What exactly am I looking at?” I asked.
She grasped both cardboard shoulders and gazed up at Cam Carter. “Our bright future.”
I raised my brows and waited for her to look back at me.
“Can you imagine if we partnered with somebody like this?” Brooke said. “We’d be set for life.”
“So, this is your vision board.”
“Ourvision board. I think Cardboard Cam will be great for office morale too. And he can be a constant reminder that we’re dreaming big here.”
“We are indeed. But while I appreciate Mr. Carter’s services, they aren’t required at this precise moment.”
My phone intercom beeped, and I tapped the button to respond.
“Your 10:15 is here, Miss West,” the receptionist said.
“Thanks, Jenna. You can send him in.” I opened my compact once more and tucked two stray pieces of red hair behind my ears. Those hairs outright refused to grow long enough to reach my tidy chignon. They defied bobby pins and hairspray. We fought more than Tom and Jerry, and like Jerry, they always won.
“You look stunning,” Brooke reassured me. “He’ll be lucky if he can remember his own name once he sees you.” Her brows suddenly drew together. “Or is it a she? Gosh, I hate being this clueless.” She glanced over her shoulder, then hurried to the doorway. “You know how to reach me if there’s an emergency. Break a leg! Or maybe do some box breathing!”
She left without specifying what sort of emergency she imagined might happen during a basic interview. I’d done dozens of these over the past couple years, mostly with small tech bloggers and local magazines. You had to take whatever publicity you could get when you built a company from the ground up.
I’d gotten my hopes up in the past that we’d get a big publicity break from an interview, something that would send our user numbers soaring. Without fail, the story ran, and the effect on our numbers was a pathetic blip, if anything.
Visible through the unfrosted bottom of the glass office walls, Jenna’s camel-colored ballet flats approached, and right behind them, a pair of taupe loafers with jeans dusting the tassels.
Jeans. The middle finger of professional attire choices, which would make loafers the yawn. I could already see the faded Def Leppard t-shirt under a thrifted blazer.
Oh, gosh. Would this guy be wearing a beanie over his bedhead?
I stifled a sigh. Today’s interview wasn’t looking to be our big break.
There was a quick knock, then Jenna opened the door. She was our just-out-of-high-school receptionist, with jet-black hair and bright red lipstick. Her cheeks were the slightest bit rosier than usual and her lashes fluttering at an alarming rate as she met my gaze. “Mr. Wilder to see you, Miss West.”
My gaze snagged on Cam Carter, whom Brooke had left behind in her mad-dash from the office. I stifled a cringe, but it was too late to do anything about it.
“Thanks, Jenna.” Rising to my feet, I smiled gratefully, then nodded to indicate she could go.
She looked at Mr. Wilder, who was still concealed by the frosted glass, then moved aside for him to come in.
There was no Def Leppard T-shirt or beanie-covered bedhead.
Above the loafers and jeans was a crisp, off-white button-upshirt, the top two buttons undone like he’d grown bored midway through the task. Rolled sleeves revealed defined forearms that seemed plenty capable of doing up a dozen buttons. A head of tidy-but-tousled sandy blond hair sat above a pair of tortoise-shell glasses and good-natured but keen hazel eyes, which took me in with unapologetic shrewdness.
“Vivian West.” Mr. Wilder stepped toward my desk and stretched out the hand not holding a notebook and pencil—maybe he intended to doodle to stave off the boredom during our interview. Though, the man didn’t look bored. “I’m Grant Wilder.”
I took his hand, which gripped mine firmly. I made sure to match it with my own well-practiced hold. In the business world, it was handshakes, not pictures, that were worth a thousand words, and I’d cultivated mine to sayI’m eminently capable.“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilder. Welcome to Matchify.”
A notification dinged on my computer, and I stifled the impulse to glance at it.
