Page 25 of Match Me if You Can

But all I’m really thinking is—what the actual fuck?

“You’re Johnny Conrad’s little sister?”

And Jake. And Jeremy. And Jonah, who goes by TJ for some reason.

“Half sister,” she corrects calmly, her eyes still that unfathomable ocean blue.

“And Hank Conrad’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I rub at the ache beginning to pulse in my temple. “You didn’t think to tell me that I’m engaged to the littlest sister of the Conrad brothers?”

They are going to obliterate me on the ice when the season starts up again.

Because if my brothers and I are known to be powerful skaters with wicked shots and a work ethic that brought us into the upper echelon of the NHL, the Conrad brothers are famous for their mid-ice hits and suspensions and brutal unforgiving play.

The hockey of old—fights, blood, missing teeth—meets the hockey of new—speed, strength, and smooth ass play.

“My half-brothers are not involved enough in my life to care who I’m engaged to,” she says.

And there’s something there.

Something that catches my focus.

But then she’s talking again and I’m soaking up every bit of her, telling myself it’s for research purposes only.

“So, yeah, I’m familiar with hockey, and I’ve used that knowledge to help people find their matches. Their reasons are their own—so long as it’s between two consenting adults, I don’t get involved. Everyone knows the stakes. Everyone knows the timeline. Everyone gets what they want.”

“That sounds awfully mercenary for someone who deals in love,” I say.

She stills again, another shadow floating across those ocean blue eyes. “There’s more than one type of love.”

“More bullshit.”

She shakes her head. “Not bullshit. There’s the love of friendship. The love of lovers. The love of companions. The love of family⁠—”

Her voice changes and I open my mouth to ask her what the fuck the blip of emotion behind all that ice of hers means, but then Janette is coming out of the back, eyes widening slightly when she sees Violet in my lap.

At least now there shouldn’t be any doubt that Violet is my fiancée.

And I can’t deny that her weight in my lap feels good, almost as good as that lush ass rubbing against my dick, almost as good as her scent in my nose, her hips beneath my hands.

I can’t deny that she seems comfortable there—despite all her boundaries.

I can’t deny that…sends a thrill through me.

A surge of possessiveness that usually means trouble’s coming.

Luckily, I don’t have time to think about why the fuck all those denials settle somewhere deep in my belly, pleasure and worry warring.

Because Janette is there.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Ambrose, Ms. Lamour,” she says, her expression smoothing out. “But we’ll be landing soon and I’m going to need you both to buckle in.”

I nod in answer.

“Right,” Violet says primly, pushing off my lap like it’s a park bench and not like she hasn’t just been all but sitting on my dick. “Thank you.” She moves to the other seat, sits down, and crosses her legs, each motion still prim and proper.