Violet
The heat of summer threatens to incinerate me as I push into the building.
I’m a mountain girl.
Give me the snow and the cold any day of the week—probably why I’ve ended up with a matchmaking business that centers around men who practically live on ice.
But there’s no ice around at the moment.
Mostly because summer matching season is fully upon me.
Something that is second only to holiday matching season.
And it’s why I have a full caseload of unlucky in love hockey players who need my special brand of expertise.
“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” I tell the vents overhead as the cool air inside hits my skin.
Surprise, surprise, my air conditioner doesn’t reply, but I cross through the small lobby area anyway, slipping into my office, unlocking my drawer and sinking down into my comfy rolling chair with a sigh.
I sit, allowing the cool air to prickle goose bumps on my skin before I pull out my binders, boot up my laptop, and get to matching.
I have an appointment in a half hour, and though I’ve done some preliminary work, I still need to make my final selections for one Ace Ambrose, captain of the Harrisburg Hawks.
He’s a tricky case.
But I’m both good at my job and determined to find a match—which is why I have a stack of folders for him to review when our meeting time rolls around.
The bell over the door dings, signaling his arrival, and I push up from my desk, move into the lobby and see the tall, rangy hockey player pacing back and forth in front of the glass table that serves as my receptionist’s desk.
Josie is off today, so she isn’t here to greet him and offer him all manner of drink—water to coffee to protein shake—but it’s no matter.
I can handle this hot hockey player.
Oh, poor delusional me.
“Ace.” I smile, lift my hand, then blink when his palm practically engulfs mine.
His skin is hot and a little rough, and I swear that when our fingers touch, a shock arcs over my knuckles.
But before I can process that, he drops his hold and marches right past me, bypassing Josie’s desk and striding into my office.
He parks his ass in a chair.
No. Not a chair.
Into my chair.
He’s flicking through the files I pulled before I make it there, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor, then sinking into the plush carpet as I circle my desk and hover at his shoulder.
At a loss with a hockey player.
For the first time ever.
I grew up with men like this. I’ve always known how to handle them.
I just…
I’m at a loss for how to deal with one who’s sitting in my chair, looking through my folders. There’s a protocol for this, an order in which I reveal the matches to ensure the best response from my client and—
“No,” he says, flicking the first file closed and dropping it to the side. Then opening another folder, giving it barely a cursory glance. “Nope.”
I mean…
That was going to be a nope from me as well, but like I said, I have a process and it’s not supposed to look like this—
“No,” he says again. Then again. And again.
And…again.
Going through the entire stack of choices as I stand there like a buffoon.
Right.
This can’t happen.
Time to take back control.
I lift my chin. “I—”
He shoves the chair away from the desk, nearly running over my toes—currently encased in my very expensive heels—and leans back, hands behind his head, brows lifting, smirk sardonic. “Is this really all the famous Blue Line Matchmaker has under her belt?”
First of all, I’m not famous.
That would defeat the entire purpose of my business.
I strive to be discreet, to find genuine matches, for what both the men and the women I’m pairing agree upon—whether it be babies, companionship, true love, or a short term gain…
and Ace’s request is definitely short term.
He wants a fiancée to take to a family wedding—a beautiful, put together woman with a solid career, a smoking body, and who’s going to be happy with a three-week long vacation that’s dotted with family events, the aforementioned wedding, and some getting to know time with the owners of a very profitable fragrance company…
and then absolutely no contact once those three weeks are up.
No gold diggers. No influencers. No media splash-back since he’s trying to lock down a huge sponsorship that will bring life-changing money.
Life. Changing.
But bound with an honor contract that the bad boy hockey player can’t risk breaking.
He needs a fiancée to impress dear old Mom and Dad and the family, a fiancée the company with those sponsorship dollars will see as an asset and not a liability, and she also needs to be disposable, so he can wait the requisite mourning period before going back to fucking his way through puck bunnies.
Get the family and business obligations out of the way.
Then return to his regularly scheduled programing—albeit with a big ass chunk of cash in his bank account.
This is my specialty.
I make the perfect match.
And any of the women he so casually discounted would excel at the role of Ace Ambrose’s fake fiancée.
Something I feel honor bound to point out—
“Any of my girls would be perfect for what you need.”
He picks up a file and holds it open so I can view the photo and the biography inside that I require each of my women to fill out. I bit back a scowl, ignoring his eyebrows going higher and his smile bordering on sardonic.
Because of course—
All of my girls except that one.
Feeling my temper spike, I snatch the file and close it, setting it in the discard pile.
“Any of those women,” I tell him, nodding at the remaining stack.
He sighs, leans back further in the chair, and I’m surprised it doesn’t topple over.
“I don’t want any of them.”
Ugh. Fine. I’ll pull more files, spend more time—
“I want you.”