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EMILY

T he office they’ve given me has a view of the royal gardens, all pruned hedges and perfect symmetry, lit up tonight by the delicate lights lining the walkways.

My desk, on the other hand, is a disaster zone of notebooks, photos, screens, and not one note that Prince Hugo Bastien deigned to tell me about himself.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, standing up to pace. My heels sink into the plush carpet as I walk the perimeter of the room. “Years of being the most sought-after matchmaker in Los Angeles, and I’m stumped by one grumpy prince.”

I turn to the wall, which is lined with books that have probably been here for centuries but don’t have a trace of dust on them.

I run my fingers along their spines, feeling the texture of history beneath my fingertips.

My own books — notebooks filled with observations about clients, psychology texts, and my personal matching methodology — are stacked haphazardly on every available surface.

I’ve matched oil tycoons with art historians, tech billionaires with organic farmers, and once, memorably, a retired astronaut with a deep-sea explorer.

My success rate is blushingly high, and each year has been better than the last. But Prince Hugo Bastien of Marzieu might just ruin my perfect record.

I flop back into my chair and stare at his picture on my laptop. He’s handsome, I’ll give him that, but his mouth is set in a perpetual straight line, as if someone programmed him to look serious at all times.

“What happened to you?” I wonder aloud.

The last few hours, I’ve been tearing through the contacts the queen had sent to me, trying to find women to introduce Hugo to. It’s not as simple as it is with my usual clients, as Hugo is expected to be matched with a woman who is of a certain caliber.

That means princesses. Heiresses. Girls from families with spotless reputations.

Yep. My task is to essentially find a needle in a haystack. A needle that Hugo will probably just curl his upper lip at.

If only he would tell me more about what he wants, then?—

I sit up straight, a new idea taking shape. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain. Or in this case, if the prince won’t tell me about himself, I’ll just have to observe him in his natural habitat.

“That’s it!” I snap my fingers, energized by the new plan. “I’ll shadow him.”

I scribble notes frantically, my mind racing.

People reveal themselves in a thousand little ways they don’t realize — how they treat staff, what makes them laugh, how they handle stress.

If I can just watch the prince going about his daily business, I’ll learn more about him than any questionnaire could tell me.

But I’ll need access to his schedule, which means I need royal permission. The queen. Of course.

I quickly dial the palace office number, tapping my pen impatiently as I wait for someone to pick up. After a minute or two, a secretary answers.

“Hello, this is Emily Neale. I need to speak with the queen as soon as possible,” I say, injecting authority into my voice.

There’s a pause, then the receptionist responds, “Stand by, please.”

I’m placed on hold. The minutes drag on, and I begin tapping my foot against the leg of my desk. Finally, the line clicks again.

“Emily, this is Julia speaking. How may I assist you?”

Her voice, warm yet laden with authority, reminds me of a school principal. Every word is precise, every syllable enunciated with regal clarity. I swallow my nerves and plunge into my proposal.

“Your Majesty, I believe I have a solution that may expedite the process. With your permission, I would like to shadow Prince Hugo and observe him, to get a clearer picture of his personality and preferences. With your consent, of course.”

There is a moment of silence on the line before the queen responds, “A rather innovative approach, Miss Neale. I must admit I am intrigued by this idea. You have my permission. And as I said before, ‘Julia’ is fine.”

My heart leaps. Victory. “Thank you, Julia. I assure you this will help immensely in the process.”

“I look forward to seeing you put your unconventional methods into action,” she replies. “I assume that your initial meeting with my son was not as fruitful as we would like?”

“Unfortunately, you are correct,” I admit, sighing softly into the receiver. “He is… a little reticent.”

There’s a beat of silence and then she laughs. “Just ‘a little,’ Emily?”

Her voice warms with honest humor, and that startles an answering laugh from me.

“All right, perhaps more than a little,” I concede, the tension in my shoulders easing.

“I do appreciate your candor. Hugo is… complicated. But he is also my son and I do wish for him to be understood, not just judged as ‘the prince.’”

“I understand completely. And I do promise to treat Hugo not just as a prince, but as a man.”

In fact, I’m already doing that. Not many people would have called a prince out on keeping them waiting for an hour, I’m sure.

“Good. I am glad we are in agreement. Hugo’s secretary will be able to give you his schedule for tomorrow.”

“Thank you again, Julia,” I say, gratitude coursing through me.

“Do your best, Emily. We have faith in you.”

We say our goodnights and hang up, my heart pounding with adrenaline and relief. I make a mental note to call the secretary first thing tomorrow, to map out when and where I can be without being too intrusive.

Satisfied with my plan, I discover that I’m suddenly extremely tired.

The jet lag I’ve been fighting off with excitement and anxiety has finally caught up now that I have a moment of relaxation.

Organizing my things, I turn the lights out in the office and head into the hallway. Time to call it a night.

Tomorrow will surely be busy and long, and since I already know Hugo will be none too pleased to have me shadowing him, I’m expecting to need the energy to go head-to-head with him.

“Oof!” The impact sends me stumbling backward, and I barely have time to register the fact that, while rounding the corner, I’ve just walked straight into someone.

Strong fingers wrap around my upper arms, steadying me. I look up — way up — into the stormy eyes of Prince Hugo Bastien himself.

“Miss Neale,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Do you always walk without looking where you’re going?”

His hands drop from my arms as if he’s suddenly remembered he’s touching me.

“Only when I’m thinking about something fascinating, Your Highness,” I reply, holding up his schedule. “Like your very busy week ahead.”

My plan was to turn over a new leaf tomorrow, to do everything I can to be kind and pleasant to him. However, after him accusing me of bumping into him — when he also had to have not been looking where he was going — I’m suddenly inclined to be anything but.

His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I just spoke to your mother. We had a lovely chat. I’ll be getting your schedule from your secretary.”

Hugo’s jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath his five-o’clock shadow. “And why, exactly, do you need my schedule?”

I straighten to my full height, which still leaves me looking up at him like he’s a particularly handsome skyscraper. “Because, Your Highness, since you won’t tell me about yourself, I’ve decided to observe for myself.”

“Observe?” His eyebrows draw together, creating a little furrow I have a strange urge to smooth with my thumb.

“Shadow. Follow. Watch. Starting with tomorrow morning.”

The prince’s face darkens like a summer storm rolling in. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” I counter. “With your mother’s full approval.”

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing its perfect arrangement. “This is ridiculous. You’re supposed to find me potential wives, not follow me around like a?—”

“Like a professional doing her job?” I finish for him. “Prince Hugo, I can’t match you with your ideal partner if I don’t know the first thing about you. And since you’ve made it abundantly clear that you won’t tell me yourself, this is the alternative.”

“Can’t you just…” He waves his hand vaguely. “Find some appropriate women and let me choose? Isn’t that how this works?”

I cross my arms. “Maybe for amateurs. I don’t just find ‘appropriate women.’ I find the right woman. Someone who complements your personality, shares your values, and challenges you in the ways you need to be challenged. But to do that, I need to know who you are beyond ‘Prince of Marzieu.’”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. Then the storm clouds return.

“I don’t have time for this. I have a council meeting tomorrow that is highly sensitive. State matters are not for civilian ears.”

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll wait outside. But the rest of your day is fair game.”

“Miss Neale?—”

“Emily is fine,” I correct him. “If I’m going to be your shadow for the next few days, you might as well use my first name.”

He looks like he’s considering picking me up and locking me in a tower somewhere. “Emily,” he says, my name sounding strangely formal in his accented voice. “This is highly irregular and completely unnecessary.”

“On the contrary; it’s both regular — for me — and absolutely necessary. Unless you’d prefer to fill out my comprehensive fifty-page questionnaire instead? It covers everything from your childhood pets to your opinions on breakfast foods.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance, Your Highness.”

He sighs, a sound so heavy it seems to bear the burden of his entire kingdom. “Fine. Shadow me. But stay out of my way, don’t interrupt my meetings, and for God’s sake, don’t wear anything that jingles.”

I frown. “Jingles?”

“I would like to forget that you are there.”

This time, I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “No bells, I promise. Why on earth would I wear anything that makes noise?”

Hugo doesn’t laugh, but something in his expression softens infinitesimally. Then, as if catching himself, he steps back, squaring his shoulders.

“My morning briefing is at seven o’clock. Don’t be late.” He turns on his heel and strides away, his back ramrod straight, shoulders tight with tension.

“Sweet dreams to you too, Prince Charming,” I mutter under my breath, watching him go.

A smile spreads across my face despite his chilly departure. Phase one of Operation Find Hugo’s Heart: complete. He may think he’s just humoring me until I go away, but little does he know I can’t afford to give up on this match.

Tomorrow, the real work begins. And by the time I’m finished here, I’ll know Prince Hugo Bastien better than he knows himself. Finding him the perfect woman will be a piece of cake.