Page 42 of Match Me if You Can

Please? My dad is saying please and…he’s smiling too.

What in the 1950s fuckery is happening in here?

I’ve stumbled into an alternate universe.

One where Violet Lamour—successful matchmaker—can tame the untamable Ambroses with pancakes, can turn us into something that’s almost civilized, into that good ol’ American family the sponsors are wanting.

I paid two million dollars for a fake fiancée…and all I needed was a pretty girl and pancakes.

I seriously got played.

And, yeah, I know I’m an asshole.

But I’m reeling.

Please and smiles and⁠—

“Ace!” my mom crows, hustling over and wrapping me in a hug that about squeezes the life out of me. “Come sit down,” she says, taking my arm and dragging me over to the table. “Do you want coffee or pancakes or⁠—”

I kiss the top of her head, nudge her down into her seat. “Eat your pancakes while they’re hot,” I say. “I’ll get my own coffee.”

I spin around and find that Violet is watching me, expression…

Not icy.

But pained.

Damn.

I move to her, conscious of the audience we have and knowing that I need to keep up the show. But neither of those are why I wrap my arm around her middle, why I draw her carefully away from the stove and back against my chest, why I bend to murmur in her ear, “Two mill buys me pancakes?”

At my touch, she’d softened against me, that gorgeous ass of hers fitting itself against my pelvis, the bottoms of her breasts brushing my arm where it’s wrapped around her.

Unfortunately, I’m an asshole.

And it takes a beat, but my words process.

She goes stiff. “Absolutely,” she whispers shortly, fingers tightening on the spatula.

I’m an asshole.

I know that.

But…

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I mutter.

She looked sad and I thought it was because of my mom—that I have mine and she doesn’t have hers—and I…wanted to make her laugh, wanted to see some of that fire inside her melt through the ice.

Instead—

Asshole.

“Of course you didn’t,” she says, leaning her head back against my shoulder, smiling up at me beatifically. It’s all for show, that smile. It’s beautiful and wide and easy for my family to spot—so much so that I hear my mom sigh contentedly, clearly buying all the fakeness.

But that smile of Vi’s, while gorgeous, is also completely coated in ice.

Not a spark of fire in sight.