Page 77 of Match Me if You Can

“Christ,” he mutters. “You even have a night?”

“I have a routine. There’s nothing wrong with a routine.”

“A boring ass routine that means you have a DoorDash night.” He tugs a strand of my hair. “Can’t you be like a normal person and just order when you have a craving for really shitty fast food?”

My hackles go up. “I’ll have you know that I order on Mondays because my weekends are insane and by the time I finish in the office, I just want to go home, rot, and definitely not cook.”

“Why are your weekends insane?”

“Because I’m usually exhausted by all the work my pain-in-the-ass-hockey-playing clients give me over the weekend,” I snap.

We fit in dates whenever the guys’ schedules allow—something that can be supremely tricky during the season—but weekends are still prime nights for taking a woman out.

Ace rocks back slightly on his heels, confusion in his gorgeous brown eyes. “But isn’t it just dates and shit like we’re doing here?”

I roll my eyes. “Some of it is like this—but that still involves lawyers and contracts, not to mention prep for travel and trips, outfits and background checks. But my normal clients—the ones who are looking for love and not a payday—take more effort.”

“How?”

“We recap dates and check-in about current and prospective matches. I help them choose locations and activities for future outings I think will work the best for them. I go over to their houses and look at outfits or make last-minute trips to the store for better ones. I help them practice their small talk, their getting-to-know-you questions, and occasionally I have late-night conversations talking them off the edge while they’re hiding in the bathroom inside whatever bar or restaurant they’re at.”

His eyebrows are high on his forehead. “That’s…a lot.”

“It is,” I agree. “But when it all comes together, when I get a wedding invitation or a picture of their baby, it’s all worth it.”

“Romantic,” he murmurs, mouth tipping up at the edges.

“I don’t know about that,” I hedge.

“I do.” He’s smirking now. “Romantic books. A job making people fall in love⁠—”

“Did you forget about you paying me two million dollars to help you secure a perfume contract?”

“First”—he taps my nose—“it’s for cologne. Second, contract or not, I’m guessing that most of your clients are actually looking for true partnership and not a fake fiancée to make them a fuck-ton of money.”

I’d opened my mouth to snipe at him.

Unfortunately, he’s right.

Something I know he knows because his eyes twinkle with mirth.

But he doesn’t gloat in his rightness. Instead, he snags my makeup and clothes, tucking them under one arm, then wraps the fingers of his free hand around my wrist and draws me to my feet.

“Go get ready, princess,” he orders. “We have a cooking competition to win.”

“Right,” I say, feeling oddly out of sorts—he’s an asshole, he’s not; he’s a hockey player, he’s gentle with me; he comes across as an unserious playboy, he shared something far deeper than that with me.

“I’ll get my shit together and shower after you’re done,” he says, pulling open the door.

“Okay.” I shut the wooden panel, turn to the left…and nearly plow into Lex.

“Watch it,” he mutters, glaring at and then sidestepping me before continuing to walk down the hall toward his room, his hair damp from the shower and dirty clothes in his arms.

I guess being waylaid by Ace didn’t delay me much.

One bathroom for five boys is insanity.

“Sorry!” I feel obligated to call.