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His brows snap together. “That child—as you well know with all of your sources—isn’t mine.”

I do know that.

The paternity test proved it.

But if we’re playing these power games, I need him to know that I’m armed too.

“Hmm,” I say softly, as though I’m not convinced.

His frown is fierce, but his tone, when he finally speaks several long moments later, is silky soft. “I see you,” he says so confidently that I freeze, alarm blaring through my veins. “I see you, princess. Your favorite color is purple.”

I inhale so sharply that I nearly choke, but I don’t take the bait, just start to open my book.

“Your favorite food is”—my fingers tighten on the edges of the pages—“a caprese salad because you don’t get that ass without eating cheese.”

I love cheese.

So fucking much.

And I love a caprese salad—because it’s something tasty masquerading as something healthy.

But is it my favorite?

I—

Don’t have time to sit in the fact that might be true because Ace is continuing on, reciting facts about me, like I’d recited about him, only instead of these being from research and my various sources in my NHL gossip tree, he’s using his sense of competition, his sense of superiority, and his intuition.

And that’s the scariest fucking thing on the planet.

“Your favorite dessert is definitely chocolate—because, again, that ass.”

“Such a compliment,” I intone, even though my heart is pounding so loudly in my ears I can barely hear myself think.

“It definitely is,” he says, gaze dragging down my body.

“Wow,” I sneer.

“How am I doing so far?” he asks, eyes burning into mine.

“Failing miserably,” I lie, heart in my throat. “But I’m just the hired help, and like I said before, I’m anything you need me to be.”

“Except for the fucking and the kissing.”

My stomach twists, but I smile serenely. “Exactly,” I say with mock brightness, like I’m talking to a toddler who just successfully put the square block into the square sorting hole instead of a grown man whose face is soon going to grace billboards. “Now you’re getting it.”

One second, I’m in my seat.

The next, my buckle is undone and I’m being hauled across the open space, hauled and…dropped onto a pair of muscular thighs.

“So much fucking sass beneath that ice,” he rasps, head dropping, breath coasting over my skin.

This is the moment that I realize my mistake.

The power games were supposed to be about asserting myself.

About showing this man I’m not a wilting violet, no pun intended.

But they’re not successful—in that way, anyway.