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EMILY

I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, pacing the plush carpet of my temporary office in the east wing of the palace.

The actress I hired for Prince Hugo’s practice date should arrive any minute now.

My heart does a tiny somersault at the thought of tonight’s dinner — not because I’m involved, of course, but because this is one of the last ideas I have.

If tonight doesn’t provide me with the info I need, there’s very little left to do.

The palace staff cleared an entire restaurant in the city center for tonight, and I’ve prepared extensive notes on the type of conversation that Hugo needs to practice — less politics, more personal connection.

The prince may be gorgeous, but his conversation skills need serious work if he’s going to charm a potential bride.

My phone buzzes against the antique desk, and I lunge for it, nearly knocking over a vase that probably costs more than my apartment back home.

“Emily Neale speaking,” I answer, trying to sound as professional as possible despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

“Ms. Neale, this is Miranda Dupont, Annabelle’s agent.” The woman’s voice sounds strained, and immediately my intuition flares with warning.

“Is everything all right?” I ask. “Annabelle should be arriving at the palace soon for?—”

“That’s why I’m calling. Annabelle won’t be able to make it tonight. I’m terribly sorry for the last-minute notice, but she’s come down with severe food poisoning.”

I sink into the nearest chair, my carefully constructed plans crumbling around me. “Food poisoning? But the practice date is in twenty minutes!”

“I know, and she feels terrible about it. We tried to find another actress from our agency who matches the profile you requested, but everyone is either already booked or unavailable on such short notice.”

My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last. “I understand. Thank you for letting me know, Ms. Dupont. Please tell Annabelle I hope she feels better soon.”

“I will. Thank you. If you like, we can go ahead and reschedule.”

I bite my lip, already knowing that’s not a possibility. “Thank you.” My voice cracks, but I push forward. “I need to scramble to find a last-minute solution, however. I will be in touch if we can use your assistance elsewhere. Have a wonderful night.”

“You too, Miss Neale.”

I hang up and stare at the ceiling, which is painted with cherubs who seem to be mocking my predicament.

I could try to reschedule, but after spending time negotiating with Hugo’s chief of staff to find this one free evening in his packed schedule, I know that’s not realistic.

The prince has diplomatic functions, charity events, and official duties booked solid for the next month.

“Think, Emily, think,” I mutter, tapping my fingers against the desk. After everything I’ve come up against and overcome, I’m not about to let a little food poisoning derail my biggest client yet.

That’s when the outrageous idea hits me.

I could step in myself. After all, this is just a practice date — an opportunity for Hugo to work on his conversation skills and personal charm before I start introducing him to actual potential matches.

I know exactly what he needs to practice and what qualities I need to assess.

But then again, I’m his matchmaker, not a candidate. There are professional boundaries. Plus, something about the thought of sitting across from those intense eyes for an entire evening makes my stomach feel like it’s filled with butterflies having a dance party.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself firmly. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”

Decision made, I rush back to my guest suite to get ready.

The dresses I planned on wearing during this trip won’t do.

Thankfully, I always overpack, and the red cocktail dress I brought “just in case” will have to work.

It’s nothing compared to the designer gowns that Hugo’s actual matches will wear, but it’s the best I’ve got.

I twist my hair into an elegant updo, leaving a few tendrils to frame my face.

My makeup goes from daytime professional to evening sophisticated with some extra eyeliner and a swipe of red lipstick to match the dress.

I’m considerably shorter than most of the women Hugo typically dates (according to my research), but my silver heels add a few precious inches.

Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Gone is the efficient matchmaker in her sensible blazer, replaced by a woman who looks like she belongs at a fancy dinner date. The thought sends another flutter through my chest, which I promptly ignore.

“This is work,” I remind my reflection sternly. “You’re still on the job.”

I gather my small clutch, which contains a discreet notebook for observations. I’ve memorized most of my coaching points for Hugo, but I might need to jot down notes about his progress. Can I be both his date and his coach?

The professional part of me says yes, while another part — a part I’m trying very hard to ignore — wonders if I’ll be able to maintain my objectivity when faced with the full force of Hugo’s royal charm.

Doing my best to calm my nerves, I walk downstairs.

I could text Hugo the update, but that would give him an opportunity to back out — make some excuse and stay in his room.

Instead I’ll wait by the front doors for him, right where his driver will be picking him up.

This way, there’s no chance he’ll slip by.

I’ll give him the updated plan as he’s walking out the door.

The grand foyer of the palace is quiet at this hour, most of the day’s visitors and staff already gone. I position myself near the massive staircase, where Hugo will descend on his way out.

A few staff members pass through, giving me curious looks, and I catch the foyer security guard gazing appreciatively at me once or twice, although whenever I look back at him his expression snaps into a friendly smile.

Oh, no. Have I overdone it with this dress? Do I look too sexy? Because I wasn’t even going for a tiny bit sexy! I was merely having fun getting dressed, not thinking about?—

A door opens somewhere above, and I freeze. The sound of footsteps echoes through the space, and then Hugo appears at the top of the staircase. As he descends, his eyes find me, and I watch as they widen slightly, his steps faltering for just a moment.

My cheeks warm under his gaze, and I suddenly feel exposed, like I’m playing dress-up in clothes that don’t belong to me.

“Well.” His voice carries that hint of an accent that makes ordinary English sound like music. “I hardly recognized you. I thought you weren’t coming tonight. Whatever happened to giving me space for the date?”

I swallow hard and channel my professional persona. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and approaches me, his cologne — woodsy and tender — surrounding us both. Up close, I can see the tiny lines around his eyes, evidence of all that he’s lived through.

“Where is the actress?” he asks, glancing around the empty foyer. “Aren’t we already running late?”

This is the moment of truth. I straighten my spine, which still leaves me looking up at him considerably. “There’s been a slight change of plans. Annabelle, the actress we hired, has come down with food poisoning.”

His expression darkens immediately. “So we’re postponing? My schedule is extremely tight, you know. I agreed to this practice date because you insisted it was necessary, but if we need to reschedule, it might be weeks before?—”

“We don’t need to postpone,” I interrupt, which earns me a raised eyebrow. Interrupting royalty is probably not in the palace etiquette handbook. “I’ll be standing in as your date tonight.”

Hugo’s expression would be comical if I weren’t so nervous — a mixture of surprise, confusion, and what appears to be alarm. “You?”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to be offended by his tone. “I know exactly what aspects of conversation and connection we need to work on, so in many ways, this is actually more efficient.”

He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disrupting it just enough to make him look more approachable and somehow even more handsome. “This sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Your confidence in my dating abilities is truly flattering.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile but not quite. “That’s not what I meant. You’re my matchmaker, not a potential match. Won’t this blur the professional lines?”

He’s right, of course, which is exactly what I’ve been worrying about for the past hour. “I’m a professional, Hugo. I can separate my role as your matchmaker from pretending to be your date for one evening. Think of me as both your date and your coach.”

“Two women in one,” he says dryly. “How economical.”

“Exactly,” I say brightly, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “The restaurant is still reserved, the staff is prepared, and we have this rare free evening in your schedule. It would be a shame to waste it.”

Hugo studies me for a long moment, so long that I have to resist the urge to fidget. I’ve worked with many powerful people, but none of them have made me feel as scrutinized as I do under the prince’s gaze.

“Very well,” he finally says with a slight nod. “But I maintain that this is a terrible idea.”

“Noted, Your Highness,” I say, relieved that he’s agreed. “Trust me, I would not be doing this if we had another option.”

We walk toward the palace doors, where on the other side a car is waiting to take us to the restaurant.

The palace staff open them for us, and the cool evening air hits my bare shoulders.

Hugo notices my slight shiver and hesitates, like he might offer his jacket, but then seems to think better of it as I slip my coat around my shoulders.

As we step outside, the reality of what I’ve gotten myself into begins to sink in. I’m about to have a private dinner with one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors — a man who features regularly in “World’s Most Handsome Royals” lists, a man whose future wife I’m supposed to be finding.

A palace guard opens the car door, and Hugo gestures for me to enter first. As I slide across the leather seat, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me, her eyes wide with nervousness and something that looks suspiciously like excitement.

Hugo settles beside me, careful to maintain a respectable distance.

The car pulls away from the palace, carrying us toward an evening that suddenly feels unpredictable.

I’m usually the one orchestrating perfect dates for others, carefully controlling every variable.

Tonight, I’m stepping into the spotlight myself, and despite all my planning and preparation, I have a strange feeling that this practice date might throw more than a few curveballs my way.