Page 13

HUGO

T he royal car glides through the city streets, unnervingly exposed without our usual motorcade.

I keep stealing glances at Emily beside me, her profile caught in flashes of streetlight.

She hums to herself, completely at ease, while my collar feels two sizes too small.

This whole “practice date” idea is ridiculous — I’m a prince, not some awkward teenager — but I know that if I don’t at least partially go along with my mother and Emily’s plans, they will simply dig their heels in and try harder.

“Relax, Hugo. Your security detail is right behind us.” Emily nods toward the unmarked car following at a discreet distance. “The point of tonight is to feel normal for once.”

I straighten my tie and choose not to tell her that it isn’t being outside of the palace that has me on edge; it’s being with her. “I haven’t been normal since I was born.”

“That’s why you need the practice.” Her smile is small but powerful. “How can I find you the perfect match if I don’t know how you behave on a date?”

I grunt in response. That’s another topic I currently don’t feel like touching. If I’m persistent enough, though, both she and my mother will eventually drop the matter. Emily will return to America and get on with other clients, and my mother will find someone else’s life to meddle in.

The car stops outside a small restaurant tucked between two larger buildings.

The sign is small and wooden, soft yellow lamps illuminating the facade.

No photographers, no crowd of curious onlookers, just a single host waiting at the door.

A glance through the windows makes the place look like it is closed.

“You rented the entire restaurant?” I ask as Emily leads the way inside.

“Your mother’s budget was generous.” She winks over her shoulder.

I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed. The interior is warm and intimate without being stuffy — exposed brick walls hung with local artwork, tables dressed in crisp white linens, candles flickering everywhere. It’s nothing like the formal state dinners I’m used to.

Then Emily hands her coat to the host, and my mouth goes dry.

The vibrant red dress she’s wearing falls just below her knees, simple but perfectly fitted to her petite frame. A small pendant nestles at her throat, catching the candlelight when she moves. I don’t know what to say. How to react. What to think.

I’ve spent days with Emily invading my space and mucking up my life, but I’ve never actually looked at her until now. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Something wrong?” she asks, tilting her head.

“No, just—” I clear my throat. “You look different outside the palace.”

“So do you. Less princely, more man-about-town.”

The host leads us to a table in the center of the empty restaurant. It feels absurd — an entire dining room, staff hovering nearby, all for just the two of us. I pull out Emily’s chair before the server can reach it, an automatic gesture that makes her smile.

A tall man in white chef’s attire approaches, his hands clasped in front of him. “Your Highness, Ms. Neale, I am Chef Laurent. It is my pleasure to serve you tonight.”

Emily beams at him. “The pleasure is ours. I’ve heard wonderful things about your restaurant.”

“I have prepared a special tasting menu highlighting the best seasonal ingredients from our region,” the chef continues. “Each course tells a story of Marzieu — its land, its traditions, its future.”

I nod, feeling the immensity of the evening ahead. This is too much like a real date. The intimate setting, the special menu, the way the candlelight catches in Emily’s hair — it’s distracting and uncomfortable.

After the chef leaves, Emily leans forward. “I know that I can sometimes be all business?—”

“Is that not why you are here?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Yes, but for the next two hours, let’s pretend I’m not your matchmaker. Let’s pretend this is simply a first date between two people who find each other interesting.”

“Is that what we are?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. My heart rate picks up, and I realize too late that she might think I am flirting with her.

“We could be, for practice.” She unfolds her napkin with a flick of her wrist. “Unless you’re worried you can’t keep up?”

The challenge in her voice stirs something in me — competitiveness, maybe, or something more dangerous.

I study her across the table, this woman who’s made a career out of reading people and pairing them up like puzzle pieces.

There’s a sharpness to her that makes her even more appealing, more tantalizing.

She doesn’t back down from a challenge, and she has the grit of ten people combined.

Simply put, she is unlike any other woman I’ve ever met.

“What’s wrong?” She tilts her head again, a habit I’m starting to recognize.

“Nothing,” I say, perhaps too quickly.

It would be a fatal error to admit that I am developing a crush on my matchmaker. Especially when it has been months — no, years — since I have had anything close to a crush. I’ve been busy doing more important things, women taking as much of a back seat as possible.

“Nothing,” I say. Wait. Did I already say that? Am I showing my hand? “Let’s do this. Hi, I’m Hugo. I run a small European country. And you are?”

Her eyes widen in surprise before crinkling with amusement. “Emily. I help people find love.”

“Interesting career choice. What drew you to matchmaking?”

The first course arrives — tiny cups of mushroom soup with truffle foam — but I keep my eyes on Emily. If she wants a performance, I’ll give her one.

“I’ve always been good at reading people,” she says, taking a delicate sip. “Figuring out what makes them tick, what they need versus what they think they want. I’ve also always been a romantic. I love fairy tales and romance books and movies.”

“Of course you do.” I smile. “But none of that is real life.”

“Not most of the time,” she counters. “Unless you find your person. Which is where I come in.”

“And what do I want, according to your expert analysis?”

“You want to be left alone.” She says it simply, without judgment.

“You’ve spent five years proving you can handle everything your father left behind, and you’re terrified that bringing someone else into your life will upset that balance.

Maybe you’re also worried that you will let down any partner you do couple up with…

although I’m less sure about that part.”

I stare at her, soup forgotten. “That’s… interesting.”

And completely accurate.

“You won’t tell me if I’m right?” She waves a hand. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need an answer. Anyway, what you need might be different from what you want.”

“And what do I need?”

“Someone who doesn’t need you to be Prince Hugo all the time. Someone who sees the man behind the title.”

Our eyes meet across the table, and for a moment, the role-playing falls away. She sees me, truly sees me, and it is terrifying.

As well as electrifying.

“And you?” I ask. “Have you found your person?”

I hold my breath, wanting her to say no, even though it doesn’t have any bearing on my life.

“Work has kept me occupied,” she says, looking away.

“Ah.”

“This soup is amazing,” she says, changing the subject. “The chef deserves every star he’s earned.”

I take a spoonful, grateful for the distraction. “It is good. Though I once had a chef who put gold flakes in everything. Made my teeth look like I’d been in a fight with a glitter bomb.”

She laughs, and just like that, the tension dissolves. We move through the next courses with surprising ease — roasted vegetables arranged like a garden, fish so fresh it barely needed cooking, a lamb dish that makes me close my eyes in appreciation.

I find myself telling her about past dinners gone wrong — the time an ambassador’s toupee fell into the soup, the visiting dignitary who got drunk and tried to waltz with a statue. She counters with stories of disastrous matches and dates she’s orchestrated that went spectacularly off-track.

“Wait,” I say, nearly choking on my wine. “He brought his mother to the date?”

“And his grandmother!” Emily wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “The poor woman thought she was meeting one eligible bachelor, not a three-generation interview panel.”

“What did she do?”

“Ordered the most expensive item on the menu, three times. Said if she had to entertain the whole family tree, she might as well get a good meal out of it.”

I laugh so hard my chest hurts. When was the last time I had fun like this? The realization sobers me slightly. Between council meetings and diplomatic crises and the endless paperwork of running a nation, there’s been little room for simple joy.

Emily notices the shift in my mood. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just…” I gesture vaguely. “This is nice. Better than I expected.”

“You thought it would be terrible?”

“I thought it would be pointless. A hoop to jump through to satisfy my mother.”

Her eyes soften. “And now?”

Our feet brush under the table as she crosses her legs, and I feel a spark — static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless.

“Now…” I shake my head. “It is nice to let loose for a while.”

The dessert arrives before she can respond — dark-chocolate mousse topped with berries and edible flowers. We eat in companionable silence, the weight of the evening settling around us like a comfortable blanket.

As the last plates are cleared away, I lean back in my chair. “So, how did I do? Am I dateable, or a lost cause?”

Emily dabs her lips with her napkin, all business again. “You did surprisingly well once you stopped overthinking everything. You’re attentive, you ask good questions, you know how to listen.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You’ll make a wonderful match for a very lucky woman.”

The words hit me with unexpected force. For the first time since this matchmaking ordeal began, I have a fleeting thought: if I am to marry, I would like it to be to someone like Emily — vivacious, intelligent, ambitious. Someone who makes me laugh, who sees through my work facade.

The thought is gone as quickly as it appears. Emily works for my mother. Her job is to find me a match, not to be one.

“Don’t look so relieved,” she says, misreading my expression. “You can’t relax just yet. I have an afternoon of speed dates set up for you tomorrow.”

I groan, the fantasy bursting like a soap bubble. “Speed dates? Really?”

“The more you humor me, the sooner I can find you a match and be out of your hair.” She gathers her clutch, signaling the end of our evening. “Unless you’re starting to enjoy my company?”

She says it teasingly, but I can’t bring myself to joke back.

The truth is, I don’t want Emily to go away — not immediately, anyway.

But she also can’t stay forever. My original plan was to frustrate her efforts, to be so difficult that my mother would give up on the idea of an arranged marriage altogether.

Now I’m not so sure what I want.

“Hugo?” She prompts, her use of my first name without the title so seductive that I wonder if I should ask her to stop saying it so I don’t go insane.

“Just wondering how many of these hurdles you’ve set up for me,” I say, covering my confusion.

“They aren’t hurdles. They’re steps.” She stands, smoothing her dress. “Ready to head back?”

I offer her my arm as we walk out, hyperaware of her small hand resting in the crook of my elbow. It feels right there, which is precisely the problem.

Tomorrow, I’ll meet more potential matches — women who fit whatever mysterious criteria she’s established based on our conversations.

I should be dreading it, just like I was the last event.

Instead, I find myself curious about who Emily now thinks would suit me, even as I wonder if anyone could possibly compare to the matchmaker herself.

The night air is cool as we step outside, the city lights reflecting off puddles from an earlier rain. Emily shivers slightly, and I resist the urge to put my arm around her shoulders.

This is just a job, I remind myself. For both of us.

But as we slide into the waiting car, our shoulders touching in the back seat, I know I’m already in trouble.