Page 14

EMILY

I adjust the last place card on the round table then step back to survey my handiwork.

The palace event room glows under tasteful lighting — not too romantic, not too sterile.

Just right for speed-dating royalty. Everything is perfect, as it should be.

Matchmaking for regular clients is one thing, but for this client? This has to be flawless.

If only my pulse would stop doing that weird jumpy thing it started doing last night.

Twelve tables, each with a single rose in a crystal vase. One royal bachelor who, until yesterday, I was convinced might be the most difficult client I’ve ever had.

But something changed last night. Something in the way his shoulders relaxed when it was just the two of us around.

The way his laugh — when it finally emerged — seemed to surprise even him, as though he’d forgotten he was capable of it.

Five years of rigid duty had calcified around him like a shell, but for just a moment, I glimpsed the man beneath.

Taking a moment to myself before the guests arrive, I glance in a mirror and smooth my hair. It took longer than usual this morning to pick my outfit — a floral dress — and I’m not sure why. It feels like I’m questioning everything today, and that has me concerned because it’s not like me at all.

A staff member pokes her head in. “Miss Emily? The candidates are in the waiting area.”

“Perfect. Please send them in in five minutes.” I check my notes one more time.

Twelve new women, carefully selected from aristocratic and accomplished backgrounds. Each one with qualities that could complement Prince Hugo. Each one, objectively speaking, far more suitable for him than his American matchmaker.

Not that I’m thinking about that.

The door opens again, and there he is. Prince Hugo walks in like he owns the room, which, technically, he does. I shift my weight, feeling oddly out of place under his gaze.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness.” My voice comes out steady and professional. Good job, Emily.

“Emily.” He nods formally, then does something unexpected — he smiles. It’s small, almost reluctant, but definitely there. “The room looks appropriate. Well done.”

I blink. Appropriate? Is that… approval? From Prince Stone Face? “Thank you. We’ll be welcoming twelve candidates today. Each speed date will last seven minutes, with one minute for transition. I’ve prepared topics of conversation if you need them, but?—”

“I think I can manage a conversation,” he says, a hint of that old arrogance returning.

“Of course. I just meant?—”

“I know what you meant.” There’s something softer in his voice now. “And I… appreciate the preparation.”

Two compliments in under a minute? I should check if the palace is still standing or if the world has ended while I wasn’t looking.

“You’re welcome,” I say, recovering quickly.

“I assume you picked these women based on last night?” His brow furrows. “So quickly?”

“I had a larger selection shortlisted.”

At this point, I’m broadening the search to women I wouldn’t have considered before, but that’s based as much on my developing knowledge of Hugo as it is the number of women he’s already burned through.

When I started the job, I assumed he would be paired with a high-profile partner, but the realization that he might need a woman who prefers to stay out of the spotlight has changed things.

“Let’s get you settled at your table,” I say. “The women will rotate, and you’ll remain seated.”

He follows me to his designated spot, and I catch a whiff of his cologne — one that he hasn’t worn before, with hints of cedar. I push the feeling that it inspires down deep.

The doors open and the candidates enter, a collection of elegant, accomplished women in cocktail attire.

I’ve met them all during pre-screening, and they’re genuinely impressive — teachers, artists, diplomats’ daughters, philanthropists, and one Olympic equestrian. Any one of them could be a princess.

I stifle a sigh as I direct them to their starting positions.

But why on earth should I sigh? This is exactly what I want — what Hugo needs.

A perfect match. My job is to find him someone who complements his life, his duties, his future.

My job is not to notice how his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he gives a genuine smile.

The first round begins, and I stand aside, clipboard ready, observing. This is usually my favorite part — watching connections form, noting chemistry, measuring body language. Today, though, I find my attention drifting repeatedly to Hugo himself rather than the interactions.

He’s different today. More engaged. He leans forward slightly when asking questions. His posture remains impeccable, but there’s a new responsiveness to him. When a brunette in a green dress says something amusing, he actually laughs — a brief, rich sound that carries across the room.

Something sharp and unexpected twists in my chest. I mark down “good rapport” on my notes, but my pen presses harder than necessary.

The timer chimes, and each woman shifts to the next table. As the second round begins, I force myself to be more methodical. Objective. Professional. I note which candidates maintain eye contact, which ones get Hugo to talk with his hands (only two so far), which ones make him check the clock.

By the fourth rotation, I’ve identified three strong contenders, which should make me happy.

Instead I feel… hollow. Like I’m watching something precious being auctioned off.

Which is ridiculous because: a) Hugo isn’t an object; b) he isn’t precious to me personally; and c) this is literally my job.

But, God, when did my throat get so tight?

Sipping water, I remind myself of the dozens of successful matches I’ve made. The wedding invitations that arrive at my office. The baby announcements. I’m good at this. I know what makes people compatible.

A redhead in a stunning blue dress is currently sitting across from Hugo. Her hand touches his forearm briefly as she makes a point, and he doesn’t pull away. My stomach twists again.

Oh, no.

I recognize this feeling. It’s happened before — this inconvenient attraction to clients. Usually, I can stamp it out easily. A brief crush, a professional reminder to myself, and it’s gone. But this… this feels different. Deeper.

I turn away, pretending to check my notes as the next rotation begins. This is just because I’ve been working too hard and I haven’t been on any dates. I’m probably starved for a connection with a man.

That’s it. And when was my last vacation?

I can’t even remember. A year ago? Longer?

Nova is right. I’ve been so focused on making others happy that I’ve neglected myself. No wonder I’m developing inappropriate feelings for a client. My emotional wires are crossed from exhaustion.

That’s all this is.

With that settled, I straighten my shoulders. When I get back to LA, I’m taking a week off. Maybe I’ll go to that spa in Arizona my friend recommended. Hikes in the morning, massages in the afternoon, no princes anywhere.

The thought steadies me through the next few rounds. I watch Hugo interacting with a stylish blonde who works for the UN. They seem to be discussing international policy, and he’s fully engaged, gesturing occasionally to emphasize a point. The woman nods eagerly, clearly impressed by his knowledge.

He’ll make some woman very happy someday. If only that woman could be me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that I had the thought. Maybe I need two weeks off instead of one. Two weeks of no one else, no matchmaking, no thinking about anyone else’s happiness but my own. When was the last time I did that?

“Are you all right?”

I jump. One of the palace staff is looking at me with concern.

“Fine,” I whisper back. “Just making notes.”

She nods and moves away. I plaster on my professional smile and continue observing. Round eight begins. This woman has Hugo smiling within the first minute — a good sign. They seem to be sharing a joke. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

I write “excellent chemistry” and underline it twice, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach.

By the time we reach the final rotation, I’ve identified four strong matches for Hugo. This is a better success rate than I usually have at these events. I should be thrilled.

Instead, I’m mentally calculating how much a two-week vacation at that Arizona spa would cost. Maybe I could add on a side trip to the Grand Canyon. I’ve never seen it.

I’m so lost in my escape plans that I almost miss it — Hugo’s eyes, not on his date, but on me.

When our gazes connect, he doesn’t look away immediately as I expect.

Instead, there’s a moment, just a fraction of a second, where something passes between us across the room.

Something that makes my heart shoot up into my throat.

I drop my eyes to my clipboard, my face burning. What was that? Did I imagine it?

When I dare to look up again, he’s focused on his date, nodding at something she’s saying. I must have imagined it. The stress, the long hours, the foreign country — they’re all conspiring to make me see things that aren’t there.

Because Prince Hugo Bastien isn’t interested in me. He’s made that crystal clear from our first meeting, with his cool demeanor and reluctant participation. The only reason he’s being moderately pleasant now is because I’ve proven I can do my job.

That’s all.

The final timer chimes, and I step forward to thank everyone for participating.

My voice is steady as I explain the next steps — how I’ll be analyzing today’s interactions and setting up more in-depth dates with promising candidates.

The women nod and smile, some casting hopeful glances at Hugo, who stands with perfect royal posture beside me.

“Thank you for your time, ladies,” he says, his voice formal but warm. “It was a pleasure meeting each of you.”

As the candidates file out, making small talk among themselves, I busy myself with gathering my notes and avoiding Hugo’s eyes. I need to maintain professional distance now more than ever.

“Well?” he asks when we’re alone. “How did I do?”

I look up, composing my face into its best professional mask. “Much better than I anticipated, Hu— Your Highness. I have several promising matches to pursue.”

Is it my imagination, or does something like disappointment flicker across his face?

“Good,” he says after a moment. “That’s… good. And remember, you can call me Hugo.”

My throat tightens. I’d rather not.

“I’ll prepare detailed profiles of the top candidates for your review tomorrow.” I clutch my clipboard like it might save me from drowning. “And then we can?—”

“You seemed distracted today,” he interrupts.

My heart stops. “Did I?”

“Yes.” His eyes study me with that intensity that seems to miss nothing. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course.” I force a bright smile. “Just making mental notes.” I start to turn away but then stop. “Actually, I was thinking that when I return to LA, I should take some time off. I haven’t had a proper vacation in years.”

“Ah.” He nods slowly. “That sounds… sensible.”

“Two weeks, I think,” I continue, babbling now. “Maybe Arizona. They have spas. And the Grand Canyon. Have you ever seen it? It’s supposed to be… grand.”

I cringe. Wow. Smooth.

A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, it’s on my list now.” I take a step back, eager to escape before I say something even more ridiculous. “I should compile these notes while everything’s fresh.”

“Of course.” He steps back as well, ever correct. “I look forward to your report tomorrow.”

I nod and hurry toward the door, feeling his eyes on my back the entire way. In the hallway, I allow myself one deep, shaky breath.

Two weeks, I decide firmly. Two weeks of vacation, minimum. And maybe I should look into dating again myself when I get back. Clearly, I’ve been living vicariously through my clients for too long.

Because this feeling — this ridiculous, hopeless attraction — needs to stop. Now. Before I do something truly unprofessional, like imagine that a prince could ever end up living happily ever after with his plebeian matchmaker.

I’m a thorn in his side. An employee. That’s all I am to him. All I should be.

No matter what my traitorous heart might wish.