Page 1 of Match Me if You Can

ONE

Violet

The heat of summer threatens to incinerate me as I push into the building.

I’m a mountain girl.

Give me the snow and the cold any day of the week—probably why I’ve ended up with a matchmaking business that centers around men who practically live on ice.

But there’s no ice around at the moment.

Mostly because summer matching season is fully upon me.

Something that is second only to holiday matching season.

And it’s why I have a full caseload of unlucky in love hockey players who need my special brand of expertise.

“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” I tell the vents overhead as the cool air inside hits my skin.

Surprise, surprise, my air conditioner doesn’t reply, but I cross through the small lobby area anyway, slipping into my office, unlocking my drawer and sinking down into my comfy rolling chair with a sigh.

I sit, allowing the cool air to prickle goose bumps on my skin before I pull out my binders, boot up my laptop, and get to matching.

I have an appointment in a half hour, and though I’ve done some preliminary work, I still need to make my final selections for one Ace Ambrose, captain of the Harrisburg Hawks.

He’s a tricky case.

But I’m both good at my job and determined to find a match—which is why I have a stack of folders for him to review when our meeting time rolls around.

The bell over the door dings, signaling his arrival, and I push up from my desk, move into the lobby and see the tall, rangy hockey player pacing back and forth in front of the glass table that serves as my receptionist’s desk.

Josie is off today, so she isn’t here to greet him and offer him all manner of drink—water to coffee to protein shake—but it’s no matter.

I can handle this hot hockey player.

Oh, poor delusional me.

“Ace.” I smile, lift my hand, then blink when his palm practically engulfs mine. His skin is hot and a little rough, and I swear that when our fingers touch, a shock arcs over my knuckles. But before I can process that, he drops his hold and marches right past me, bypassing Josie’s desk and striding into my office.

He parks his ass in a chair.

No. Not a chair.

Into my chair.

He’s flicking through the files I pulled before I make it there, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor, then sinking into the plush carpet as I circle my desk and hover at his shoulder.

At a loss with a hockey player.

For the first time ever.

I grew up with men like this. I’ve always known how to handle them.

I just…

I’m at a loss for how to deal with one who’s sitting in my chair, looking through my folders. There’s a protocol for this, an order in which I reveal the matches to ensure the best response from my client and⁠—

“No,” he says, flicking the first file closed and dropping it to the side. Then opening another folder, giving it barely a cursory glance. “Nope.”