Page 20 of Match Me if You Can

“Ace Xavier Ambrose,” she says, lifting the glass to her lips, throat working as she swallows.

I want her to swallow something else.

“Twenty-eight years old,” she goes on before I say that out loud and earn the pillow smothering. “Born in St. Paul on October twelfth. Second oldest of the five Ambrose brothers, all of whom play in the NHL. A family dynasty is what a certain sports magazine called you all in their last feature. Your dad is a firefighter and your mom is a teacher.” Another swallow. “Your favorite color is an unoriginal blue, and you like to fish and golf in the summer—two typically boring hockey player hobbies. You led the Hawks last season in goals and ice time, and that helped you secure a long-term contract for big-time money. Something that’s made my bank account very happy right now.” She drains the glass. “Favorite food is lasagna and dessert is salted caramel gelato. Your favorite hockey moment was scoring the game-winning goal in the third round of the playoffs during your first season in the league and your most heart-breaking is losing the Cup the very next round in six games.” She sets the empty flute onto the table with a soft clink. “Anything else I’m forgetting?”

“Names of my brothers?” I ask, perversely curious.

“Oakes, Noble, Beckett, though he prefers to go by Beck, and Lex.”

My brows lift. “Parents?”

“Joan and Steve.” A tilt of her head. “Paternal grandparents are Edith and John. Maternal are Rebecca and Eddison. Aunts are…” A tap of her finger. “Mary, Robin, Christine, and Judith. Uncles are Roger and Gary. Cousins include two more Johns, a Becky, a Georgia, and an Aurora.”

Jesus Christ.

Remind me to never play Memory with this woman.

She will obliterate me.

And half that shit wasn’t even on the questionnaire she asked me to fill out.

“Favorite video game is Mario Kart,” she says. “So much so that the Hawks put in a gaming room when they built their new arena so you guys can battle it out before home games.”

I blink but find I can’t back down. “That’s common knowledge.”

“Favorite drink is orange Gatorade.” She shudders delicately. “Which is the worst flavor, by the way.”

“What?” I ask, snapping out of my stunned stupor by that bit of insanity. “Orange is fucking delicious.”

She sniffs delicately. “Absolutely not. Fruit Punch is the best.”

I shake my head, look up at the ceiling. “Women. I swear to God. That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“So says the man who pierced his nipple because he lost a bet with his teammate.”

My mouth falls open. “How the fuck did you find that out?”

Her smile…I want to break that boundary about kissing. “I have my sources,” she says, reaching for her book again.

“What are you reading?” I ask, needing to change the subject.

If she found out about the piercing…

Christ, who knows what else she’s discovered?

A slant of those blue eyes in my direction. “Shouldn’t you be asking me what my favorite color is?” she asks, but I don’t miss that she flips the book over, turning it so I can’t see the cover or the spine.

Hiding something.

Yeah, that’s bullshit. Hiding when she knows everything about me.

I snatch it from her lap, frown when I see the title.

I expected a dry biography about a former president. Instead…

“You read this shit?”

She lifts her chin but doesn’t reply other than leaning forward and wrenching it out of my hand. The only reason she succeeds in the endeavor is because her shirt gapes on that lean, giving me a glimpse of a set of tits that are round and perky and make me think of motorboats…motorboating. “This”—she sniffs again, holding the trashy romance novel up—“is not shit.”