Meet Your Match (Kings of the Ice)

Copyright (C) 2023 Kandi Steiner All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law. The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Published by Kandi Steiner, LLC Edited by Elaine York/Allusion Publishing Cover Photography by Ren Saliba Cover Design by Kandi Steiner Formatting by Elaine York/Allusion Publishing Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Epilogue Fair Catch Sneak Peek More from Kandi Steiner Acknowledgements About the Author To the ones who run despite the rain, who jump without fear of falling, who open their hearts when the world says it’s foolish to do so, and who are just crazy enough to believe in love. This one’s for you. The Most Heinous Vase Ever Created Maven “It smells like rich assholes in here.” I wrinkled my nose to hammer that point home, and my best friend let out a soft laugh before sipping from the glass of champagne she held daintily between her fingertips. The diamonds on her warm brown wrist glittered under the chandelier, but as impressive as her jewelry was, it didn’t hold a candle to the long, black, starlight-like dress hugging her curves and draping down to the floor in romantic sweeps of shimmering fabric. “And you know that because you’ve had your nose buried in a rich asshole a time or two in your life?” “Don’t even have to get that far to sniff one out. Just being in the same room suffices.” The room we were currently in was of the ballroom variety, with elegant chandeliers, pristine marble floors, and a majestic, vaulted ceiling painted like an Italian chapel. It was one of the most historic buildings in Ybor; an old social club transformed into an upscale party for tonight’s event. When we walked up the grand staircase earlier, I was entranced by the lush gold and blood red tones. The way they mixed with the expensive wooden trim transported me back in time, as if we were attending an 18th century royal affair. Tampa’s rich and famous filled the lavish space, dressed to the nines in tuxedos and gowns that cost more than everything I currently owned put together. The only reason I was able to dress to fit in was because of Livia, who had a flair for designer clothes even before she was the highest-paid dentist in the state. Mostly because her dentistry didn’t just consist of filling cavities and routine cleanings — although, she’d argue she did plenty of that, too — but rather handling the absolutely brutal mouth trauma suffered by professional hockey players. She’d been ecstatic for the chance to get me out of what she referred to as my “hippie clothes.” I much preferred the flowy fabric of my Free People dresses to the form-fitting mermaid number Livia had strapped me into tonight. Although, the gorgeous yellow tone of it was my favorite. It complemented my rich, creamy brown complexion beautifully, and I’d styled my hair back in a sleek ponytail so all attention stayed on the dress. Livia folded one arm over her middle, balancing the elbow of the other on her wrist and tilting the champagne flute to her lips again. “What exactly is the scent?” “Dirty money, designer leather, and Bond No. 9,” I said easily. “With a hint of that particular fragrance that you only find in the lobbies of million-dollar condos.” “Does my condo lobby smell?” “It’s the most pungent one in Tampa.” Her coral-painted lips curved into a saccharine smile, one that told me she took that as a compliment. “Well, good thing you’re only here to report on the event and how much these rich assholes raise for charity tonight,” she said. “Wouldn’t want you to catch the stench.” She elbowed me with the joke, and I smiled, pulling my phone from my clutch and switching it to cinema video mode before I took some close-up shots of the elaborate centerpiece glittering on the cocktail table we were standing at. When I had that clip, I tucked my phone away and wrapped my hands around the camera hanging from my neck. I adjusted a few settings before taking a photograph of the table, then of Livia as she winked and tipped back the last of her champagne. Outside of this event, when people saw us together, we didn’t fit. Livia was born and raised in Long Island, New York — and her parents had the vacation house in the Hamptons to prove it. I was from the opposite side of the tracks, a humble upbringing in a suburb inland from Tampa Bay. She was also four years older than me, graduating with her doctoral degree when I had just barely clinched my bachelor’s. Still, from the moment we met, there had been an understanding between us. It was the kind you only found in someone who saw you for who you are and didn’t expect you to be anyone or anything else. It was rare, and special, and something I never took for granted — especially since finding any kind of connection like that with the opposite sex seemed futile at this point. Livia Young was the best thing to come out of the most traumatic relationship of my life. As if she could sense where my