Page 12 of His Royal Matchmaker

“Heaven forbid that someone should expect clear communication from you.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Whose side are you on?”

Guy lifts himself out of the pool in one smooth motion, water streaming off his athletic frame. “The side of reason, as always. You need to find a wife eventually, Hugo. The country expects it. The council expects it. And deep down, I think you want it too.”

I follow him out of the pool, grabbing a towel from the heated rack. “I want to find someone on my own terms. Is that so unreasonable?”

“And when would you do that, exactly?” He raises an eyebrow. “Between your seven a.m. briefings and your midnight policy reviews? You barely leave the palace except for official functions.”

His words hit harder than I’d like to admit. Since stepping in to help with royal responsibilities, my life has become a carefully scheduled series of meetings and appearances. The weight of responsibility leaves little room for anything else.

“Look,” he goes on. “Think of it this way. A matchmaker is essentially screening candidates for you. Saving you time. She’s doing the preliminary work so you don’t have to suffer through dozens of awkward dates with incompatible women.”

I run the towel over my hair, considering his words. “I guess.”

“Plus,” Guy adds with a smirk, “if she’s as pretty as you’re trying not to admit, seeing her for follow-up meetings won’t be such a hardship.”

I throw my wet towel at him, which he easily catches. “I never said she was pretty.”

“You didn’t have to. Your defensive tone said it for you.” He shakes his head. “I still don’t get why you’re being so ornery when it comes to this.”

I look away, because I’m not sure either. What I suspect is that it is all happening too fast. I never expected to settle down this young, just as I didn’t expect to inherit so much responsibility this early. While I think I do a good job of faking confidence, sometimes I feel desperately out of control.

And a wife? Children?

What if I cannot be the man they need me to be? Just as I might not be able to one day be the king my country needs?

There it is, the real fear, tucked away behind all my combativeness. It’s not one I wish to share, though. I need to be strong — for my mother, for my country. A real prince is stoic,in charge, never quaking in fear. If people saw how often I doubt myself, they would doubt me, and I cannot —willnot— let my people down.

So, I need to postpone marriage for a while longer, until I am ready. When that will be, I do not know yet. I only know that I am not yet the man who can handle a family. One day, yes…

But not today.

CHAPTER 6

EMILY

The 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 astronautwith 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.

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