Page 32 of Match Me if You Can

Violet

I watch his back as he storms away from me.

No asking if he’s okay.

Good to know that fact about my fake fiancé.

He shoves open a door and disappears into a room at the end of the hall on the right, a light flicking on, filling the shadowed hall with a wedge of brightness. The house is that…shadows and brightness, a weird mix of family togetherness and tension that feels ready to snap at any second.

It’s no wonder that Ace has been growing grumpier by the hour.

I admit that I’m…a bit piqued myself.

His mom is sweet, but a lot—a tiny Tasmanian devil of energy that I can barely keep up with. His dad and brothers...well, they’re pretty much as far away from sweet as possible. It took more energy than I’d like to ignore their snarky comments, the way their gazes regularly drifted to my bare legs.

With the exception of Noble, anyway.

Noble Ambrose’s gaze remained firmly fixed on my face, and he refrained from his share of snarky comments, but the way he studied me, the ice that stayed in place throughout the last hours…he’s suspicious.

Another thing to add to the exhausting side of things.

So yeah, I’m not sad about heading to bed.

But as I walk down the hall and through the open door, I realize that’s going to be complicated.

Because there is one—yup one—bed in Ace’s childhood room.

Of course there is.

I just…

There’s only one fucking bed.

My temple starts throbbing as I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me, and I know I can’t be a real fake fiancée just standing here in the open doorway, staring at the bed like it’s a snake coiled to strike.

Right. Nothing to do but get on with it.

I step the rest of the way inside, shut the door behind me.

Ace is sitting on the edge of the mattress—a full, not even a queen, for God’s sake—but he doesn’t react to the sound of the door closing, doesn’t look up.

His gaze is glued to his phone.

Right.

Add one more grumpy hockey player to that exhausting column.

I guess I’ll just…familiarize myself with the childhood room of a hockey hunk.

As I look around, I realize it’s pretty much what I expect—bikini-clad women in posters, medals and trophies littering the tops of shelves, and⁠—

I frown and lean closer.

Axe body spray sitting on the dresser.

Of course.

Shaking my head, I move to my suitcase, unzip it, and that sound seems to snap him out of his phone stupor, his frustration with me asking if he’s okay. “What are you doing?”