Page 22 of Match Me if You Can

I just lift my brows.

He tilts my head a little higher, turning it slightly from side to side, studying me like I’m a bug under a microscope. My heart begins beating faster the longer he looks at me, those deep brown eyes pinning mine in place, delving deeply into my freaking soul.

But there’s a stubborn streak in me.

It’s how I survived the nightmare that was my childhood.

It has my spine going stiff, my gaze refusing to break from his.

Fucking. Hockey. Players.

“Pink,” I lie.

A shake of his head. “Nope. Try again.”

This man is un-fucking-believable.

“Yellow.”

He chuckles, throat working in a way that draws my focus there, draws my focus to the strong cords, the thick muscles encasing them. “Such a pretty fucking liar.” Our gazes clash for a tense moment before he shakes his head again and drops his hand away, taking the warmth with him, leaving me with just ice and frost and armor.

“Fine,” he mutters. “You want to play this game, we can play this game.”

“I’m hanging on every single one of your words,” I say dryly.

Those eyes flash. “But not staring up at me like my cock lights the fucking sun now, are you?”

I blink, trying to process that. “Like your cock lights the sun?” I ask, aghast, before I can stop myself. Not only does that not make sense…but now I’m talking about his cock.

Fucking hell.

His smile is wicked. “I thought you’re used to hockey players, princess.”

“I don’t usually discuss”—unbidden, my eyes flick down, taking in the way his tight slacks lovingly cup his dick—“nether regions with my clients.”

A rough chuckle. “So prim and proper and yet, ten seconds ago, that lush mouth was forming the word cock.”

“Wow,” I mutter, going for unaffected, even though I’m affected. Very, very affected. “Such a gentleman.”

“You already know I’m not.”

I do know that.

I know why he hired me—I knew it before he walked through the door and actually hired me. This man’s taste in women is horrendous (and no, I’m not including him procuring my services in that same category—I’m a business partner, a means to an end, and that’s all).

That’s more than enough.

He likes tits and ass and toxic.

He likes it so much that he’s gotten into trouble his publicist has had to bury.

There are no rumors of rape or assault or inappropriate contact—there is no fucking way I would take him on as a client, two million dollars or not, if there was an inkling of that in my hockey gossip channels.

He just…

He’s like a crow, distracted by the shiny and not able to see what’s beneath it until it’s too late.

“How’s that child of yours?” I ask quietly.