Page 11 of Match Me if You Can

And I sigh.

Because I received the bank transfer.

And the instructions, copious as they are.

I read them, committed them to memory, and…my bags are packed.

Which means I’m keeping Josie and my apartment and my office—and my shoes, my facials, and my weekly DoorDashes.

It also means I’m flitting off to Minnesota and the humid summer air to spend time with a fucking hockey player—and worse, with a whole family of them.

Brothers who all play in the league.

Brothers who are all like Ace, albeit not as successful, but still dominate on the ice and who walk into rooms, dicks swinging like they own the fucking place.

Hockey players.

The bane of my existence—and yet, my livelihood.

Bane because once I was a baby no one wanted, and a family of hockey players was my only connection to something that wasn’t state care. I was the sister who shouldn’t have existed—and yet, did. The sister who was—and is still—resented as I make my own way, trying to pretend that everything is fine, and⁠—

My breath hitches, a sob rising in my throat.

“Stop,” I whisper, swallowing it down, pushing it all down.

Pulling the icy calm around me, knowing that frosty armor is the most important thing.

I need my business to succeed.

I need to never rely on my family again.

Not a man. Not my sperm donor and wicked stepmother and asshole, users of half-siblings.

Not Ace fucking Ambrose.

I pull the ice so tightly around me that no one will guess that Violet Lamour, the secret and successful Blue Line Matchmaker can’t stand her clients. Not all of them, I feel obliged to tack on. Just…most of them. Including Ace fucking Ambrose, captain of the Harrisburg Hawks, king asshole, and expert businessman who apparently can spare two mill without blinking an eye.

“Ugh,” I groan, flopping back onto my bed, and nearly braining myself on my suitcase in the process.

I shift to the side, not wanting to damage it—and not just because I might break the ridiculously expensive fancy three-sixty spinning wheels—but because if I do damage my suitcase, I’ll have to repack my stuff into another bag, and everything is perfectly folded and organized by day and night, fancy or not, and color-coordinated with my shoes and my accessories.

I may not be up for offer to my clients—normally, anyway—but I’m being paid a lot of money for this job, so I’m going to do it right.

The perfect fiancée.

Plus…armor.

Something I have the feeling I’m going to need with Ace Ambrose.

His voice that ran like velvet over my skin. That sharp jaw and those shrewd eyes.

The dark stubble. The broad shoulders and narrow waist and ass that a woman dreams of holding as he pounds into her, nails biting into the twin mounds, cock stretching her wide, and⁠—

Buzz. Buzz.

Slamming the door on that particular thought—fantasy?—I sit up quickly, swiping the message away on my phone screen, taking a quick second to finish making my bank transfers. Then I exit the app, navigate to my messages, and scan the text, stomach tightening at the imminent arrival of Ace’s car.

“Breathe,” I whisper as I push off the mattress, fixing my chignon that took way too long to perfect in the mirror. Inhale. Exhale.