Page 24 of His Royal Matchmaker

“You too, Miss Neale.”

I hang up and stare at the ceiling, which is painted with cherubs who seem to be mocking my predicament. I could try to reschedule, but after spending time negotiating with Hugo’s chief of staff to find this one free evening in his packed schedule, I know that’s not realistic. The prince has diplomatic functions, charity events, and official duties booked solid for the next month.

“Think, Emily, think,” I mutter, tapping my fingers against the desk. After everything I’ve come up against and overcome, I’m not about to let a little food poisoning derail my biggest client yet.

That’s when the outrageous idea hits me. I could step in myself. After all, this is just a practice date — an opportunity for Hugo to work on his conversation skills and personal charm before I start introducing him to actual potential matches. I know exactly what he needs to practice and what qualities I need to assess.

But then again, I’m his matchmaker, not a candidate. There are professional boundaries. Plus, something about the thought of sitting across from those intense eyes for an entire evening makes my stomach feel like it’s filled with butterflies having a dance party.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself firmly. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”

Decision made, I rush back to my guest suite to get ready. The dresses I planned on wearing during this trip won’t do. Thankfully, I always overpack, and the red cocktail dress I brought “just in case” will have to work. It’s nothing compared to the designer gowns that Hugo’s actual matches will wear, but it’s the best I’ve got.

I twist my hair into an elegant updo, leaving a few tendrils to frame my face. My makeup goes from daytime professional to evening sophisticated with some extra eyeliner and a swipe of red lipstick to match the dress. I’m considerably shorter than most of the women Hugo typically dates (according to my research), but my silver heels add a few precious inches.

Looking in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Gone is the efficient matchmaker in her sensible blazer, replaced by a woman who looks like she belongs at a fancy dinner date. The thought sends another flutter through my chest, which I promptly ignore.

“This is work,” I remind my reflection sternly. “You’re still on the job.”

I gather my small clutch, which contains a discreet notebook for observations. I’ve memorized most of my coaching points for Hugo, but I might need to jot down notes about his progress. Can I be both his date and his coach?

The professional part of me says yes, while another part — a part I’m trying very hard to ignore — wonders if I’ll be able to maintain my objectivity when faced with the full force of Hugo’s royal charm.

Doing my best to calm my nerves, I walk downstairs. I could text Hugo the update, but that would give him an opportunity to back out — make some excuse and stay in his room. Instead I’ll wait by the front doors for him, right where his driver will be picking him up. This way, there’s no chance he’ll slip by. I’ll give him the updated plan as he’s walking out the door.

The grand foyer of the palace is quiet at this hour, most of the day’s visitors and staff already gone. I position myself near the massive staircase, where Hugo will descend on his way out.

A few staff members pass through, giving me curious looks, and I catch the foyer security guard gazing appreciatively at me once or twice, although whenever I look back at him his expression snaps into a friendly smile.

Oh, no. Have I overdone it with this dress? Do I look too sexy? Because I wasn’t even going for a tiny bit sexy! I was merely having fun getting dressed, not thinking about?—

A door opens somewhere above, and I freeze. The sound of footsteps echoes through the space, and then Hugo appears at the top of the staircase. As he descends, his eyes find me, and I watch as they widen slightly, his steps faltering for just a moment.

My cheeks warm under his gaze, and I suddenly feel exposed, like I’m playing dress-up in clothes that don’t belong to me.

“Well.” His voice carries that hint of an accent that makes ordinary English sound like music. “I hardly recognized you. I thought you weren’t coming tonight. Whatever happened to giving me space for the date?”

I swallow hard and channel my professional persona. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and approaches me, his cologne — woodsy and tender — surrounding us both. Up close, I can see the tiny lines around his eyes, evidence of all that he’s lived through.

“Where is the actress?” he asks, glancing around the empty foyer. “Aren’t we already running late?”

This is the moment of truth. I straighten my spine, which still leaves me looking up at him considerably. “There’s been a slight change of plans. Annabelle, the actress we hired, has come down with food poisoning.”

His expression darkens immediately. “So we’re postponing? My schedule is extremely tight, you know. I agreed to this practice date because you insisted it was necessary, but if we need to reschedule, it might be weeks before?—”

“We don’t need to postpone,” I interrupt, which earns me a raised eyebrow. Interrupting royalty is probably not in the palace etiquette handbook. “I’ll be standing in as your date tonight.”

Hugo’s expression would be comical if I weren’t so nervous — a mixture of surprise, confusion, and what appears to be alarm. “You?”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to be offended by his tone. “I know exactly what aspects of conversation and connection we need to work on, so in many ways, this is actually more efficient.”

He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disrupting it just enough to make him look more approachable and somehow even more handsome. “This sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Your confidence in my dating abilities is truly flattering.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile but not quite. “That’s not what I meant. You’re my matchmaker, not a potential match. Won’t this blur the professional lines?”

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