Page 17

HUGO

I tap my pen against the polished surface of my desk, staring at the document I should be reviewing, but my thoughts scatter like startled birds. It’s been three days since that trail ride with Emily, and her laugh still echoes in my head at the most inconvenient moments.

I’ve buried myself in work since then, but even as I clear my inbox, I can’t clear my mind of her. The crush is a foolish indulgence, like a forbidden dessert, but it’s also the first thing that’s made me feel alive in years. And I’m not quite ready to give it up.

By six o’clock, I’ve caught up on most of the work I missed during my two-day break. It was worth it, though. Those hours spent riding through the countryside with Emily refreshed something in me that I hadn’t realized needed refreshing.

As I close things out for the day, my phone buzzes with a text from her: How’s the princely paperwork going? Rescued any kingdoms today?

I smile despite myself. Emily texts like she talks — full of energy and unexpected humor.

My thumbs hover over the screen as I debate what to say.

What I want is to see her again, but what excuse do I have?

Our next official appointment isn’t for another two days, and the palace is so large it’s not easy to run into someone here.

Just finished saving the world for today. Very exhausting business, I type back.

Her response comes quickly: Poor overworked prince. You need a proper break!

And suddenly, I know what I want to do. Before I can overthink it, I type: Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to see my house tomorrow. My real house, not the palace. It might help you understand me better for the matchmaking process.

The three dots appear and disappear several times before her answer comes: Your real house? Not where you normally meet clients, I’m guessing?

No, I reply. It’s my private residence. I don’t bring many people there. I hesitate, then add: But I’d like to show you.

Another pause, and I picture her chewing her lip the way she does when she’s thinking. Finally: I’d love to see it. Professional curiosity and all that. What time?

We agree on noon, and I slide my phone into my pocket with a strange flutter in my chest. This is dangerous territory. Any romantic entanglement between us would be inappropriate at best, scandalous at worst. But I can’t bring myself to care as much as I should.

The next morning, I spend more time than usual choosing what to wear. I settle on dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt — casual by royal standards, which is exactly the point.

Going to the garages, I select my rarely used Audi and drive it out front. No security detail today, and I’m enjoying just how good it feels to be out on my own — or out with just Emily.

She emerges from the palace wearing a yellow sundress and low heels. Her face brightens when she sees me behind the wheel, and it is as if my stomach does a somersault.

“No royal entourage today?” she asks, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Left the crown at home too,” I reply, enjoying the way her scent fills the car — something light and citrusy that suits her perfectly and seems to be coming from her hair.

“I’m honored,” she says, buckling her seatbelt. “So, where are we going, mystery man?”

“About twenty minutes outside the city. It’s not far.”

We drive through the city, then along winding country roads. With the top down and the wind blowing around us, it’s impossible to talk, but I don’t mind. Merely being together is delicious, a treat of the kind I never allow myself to have.

“So this house,” she says as we turn onto a private road lined with oak trees. “Is it some kind of royal hunting lodge? Secret palace? Underground lair?”

I smile. “Nothing so exciting. Just a house I bought after university. Before…” I don’t need to finish.

Before my father died. Before I became the responsible prince.

Before my life stopped being my own and I essentially moved into the palace so that I could cut the time suck of a commute out of my day.

The house comes into view — a two-story stone building with large windows and a wraparound porch.

It’s substantial but not ostentatious, set amid gardens that are maintained by a gardener.

Despite the fact that I hardly spend any time here, there is a guardhouse with a guard always keeping an eye on things.

He comes out and bows at me before lifting the gate, and I give him a wave then park at the end of the drive.

“It’s beautiful,” Emily says, her voice soft with genuine appreciation. “It looks like a real home.”

“That was the idea,” I reply, getting out of the car. “Though I don’t get to stay here as often as I’d like.”

Inside, sunlight streams through the windows, falling on hardwood floors and comfortable furniture. There’s a lived-in quality despite my absence — books on shelves, a guitar in the corner, photographs on the walls. This place holds pieces of me that the palace never could.

Emily moves through the rooms like she’s reading a book, touching surfaces, examining photographs, peering out windows. “This makes so much more sense now,” she says.

“What does?”

“You.” She turns to face me, her expression thoughtful. “The person behind the prince. The guy who likes old Western novels and apparently plays guitar and has a weird collection of…” She squints at a shelf. “Are those vintage beer steins?”

I feel my cheeks warm. “A phase in university. My roommate got me started.”

“I like it,” she declares. “It’s unexpected. Like finding out Superman collects stamps.”

“Hardly Superman,” I say, leading her through to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

As I prepare the coffee, Emily pulls something from her bag — two books. She sets them on the counter with a small smile.

“Light reading for our house tour?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Actually, these are for you.” She pushes them toward me. “I’ve been thinking about our conversations. About what you said regarding relationships and your concerns about them.”

I look at the titles: Building Lasting Partnerships and The Myth of Perfect Love . They’re not the typical romance-advice books I’d expected.

“These are about healthy expectations,” she explains. “About understanding that lasting relationships aren’t fairy tales, but that they’re still worth having.” Her fingers brush against the cover of one book. “I thought they might help with some of your concerns.”

I turn the books over, checking them out. “Thank you.”

To my surprise, I find myself reading one of the back covers. I might even read the whole book…

“May I speak bluntly?” Emily says.

I set her coffee in front of her, on the island. “Please.”

I’m holding my breath, though, not sure I truly want to hear what’s on her mind. Unless it has something to do with the two of us closing the space between us and?—

“Are you dragging your feet?”

“No.” The word comes out too fast, too forceful.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re not just trying to tire me and your mother out until we give up on you?”

I should have known I could not fool her for long. She’s too astute, too intelligent.

“Emily…” I clear my throat.

“Actually, never mind.” She shakes her head. “Thank you for the coffee.”

I stare at her, surprised that she is dropping the topic nearly as quickly as she brought it up. Especially considering that this is her job we are talking about — although I suppose she gets paid whether or not she finds me a match.

“These aren’t about finding the perfect person,” she continues, pointing at the books. “They’re about building something meaningful once you do find someone worth trying with.” Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I wonder if there’s another message beneath her words.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll read them.”

By “read them,” I mean glance through them enough so that if she asks, I can provide convincing responses that make it look like I read every page.

We take our coffee out to the back porch, settling on a swing that creaks softly beneath our weight. The garden stretches before us, a tangle of late-summer flowers and uncut grass.

“So,” I say, deciding to turn the conversation, “ever since we met, the focus has been on me. But what about you? You mentioned that your relationships tend to be measured in months, not years.”

She wraps her hands around her mug, her smile turning wry. “I spend so much time focusing on other people’s love lives that mine gets neglected.”

“That can’t be the whole story,” I press.

She sighs, looking out at the garden. “The truth is less interesting. I’m a hopeless romantic working in an industry that should have cured me of that by now.

” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve dated nice guys. Fun guys. Smart guys.

But I keep waiting for that feeling — that certainty that this is right. ”

“And you’ve never felt it?”

“Almost,” she admits. “Twice. But timing was wrong, or priorities were wrong, or…” She shrugs. “Something was always wrong.”

“And yet you still believe in it,” I observe. “In finding your perfect match.”

“Not perfect,” she corrects. “Just right . There’s a difference.”

She turns to me, her expression suddenly vulnerable. “Actually, I’ve been doing some thinking recently. About my life, my work. I’m good at what I do — really good — but I’ve been so focused on building my business and helping clients that I’ve forgotten to live my own life.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“When was the last time I took a real vacation? Or dated someone without analyzing why it wouldn’t work long-term within the first five minutes?

” She laughs softly. “I think I need to take my own advice. Take a break. Find love for myself.” Her eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us.

“And what would that look like?” My voice sounds different, even to my own ears.

“I don’t know exactly,” she says. “But I think it would feel like… letting go. Stopping all the calculating and just feeling .”

The swing creaks between us. I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, of the space where our shoulders almost touch.

“Do you think that’s possible?” I ask. “To just stop thinking and start feeling?”

“I hope so,” she says softly. “Don’t you?”

I look at her — really look at her — and allow myself, just for a moment, to imagine what it would be like.

Emily and me, together. Morning coffee on this porch.

Her laughter filling these rooms. Her hand in mine, not as my matchmaker, but as my partner.

The fantasy blooms in my mind with surprising vividness — walks through the garden, quiet evenings by the fireplace, her head on my shoulder as we talk about everything and nothing.

It’s a dangerous daydream, but I can’t stop it now that it’s begun. What if I allowed this to happen? What if I followed this feeling instead? Would the world really collapse if Prince Hugo fell for the wrong woman?

Would my understanding of who I am collapse? And would that be such a bad thing?

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, tilting her head.

“How I need to have the house deep-cleaned,” I lie.

“Ah.” Does she look disappointed, or am I just imagining it?

She shifts the conversation back to relationship coaching, but my mind cannot focus on it. I nod and make sounds of agreement, wishing that the two of us could be swimming in the lake or stealing kisses beneath the trees.

“We should probably be going,” she says, checking the time after what feels too soon. “You need to be back at the palace for a meeting. Thank you for showing me your home. It’s… it helps me understand you better.”

I walk her to my car, the moment — whatever it was — broken. The drive back to the palace is quiet, but now it feels like it’s more than the loud wind forcing us into silence.

As we head inside the massive structure, she looks over at me. “We can’t wait much longer to set up second dates. Just so you know.”

“Of course.” My chest feels heavy at the thought.

“I’ll look at your schedule and figure out some times.”

I grunt in response, only wishing for the conversation to end at this point.

“And you’ll read the books?”

“I promise.”

She hesitates at the main staircase, then reaches out and squeezes my hand quickly. “Thank you for today. For trusting me with this part of yourself.”

I watch her disappear upstairs, my thoughts churning like a stormy sea. For five years, I’ve known exactly who I am and what I must do. Prince Hugo, dutiful son, future king. My path has been clear, if not particularly joyful.

But now, for the first time since my father’s death, I find myself considering a different road. One that leads away from work and toward something frightening and exhilarating. Something that feels like living instead of just existing.

It’s not that simple, though. I’m the most conflicted I’ve ever been.

The weight of what I’ve thought I want presses down on one shoulder, while the memory of Emily’s smile tugs at the other.

I don’t know which way I’ll tip, but for the first time in years, not knowing what comes next is not terrifying.

It is freeing.