Page 25 of His Royal Matchmaker

He’s right, of course, which is exactly what I’ve been worrying about for the past hour. “I’m a professional, Hugo. I can separate my role as your matchmaker from pretending to be your date for one evening. Think of me as both your date and your coach.”

“Two women in one,” he says dryly. “How economical.”

“Exactly,” I say brightly, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “The restaurant is still reserved, the staff is prepared, and we have this rare free evening in your schedule. It would be a shame to waste it.”

Hugo studies me for a long moment, so long that I have to resist the urge to fidget. I’ve worked with many powerful people, but none of them have made me feel as scrutinized as I do under the prince’s gaze.

“Very well,” he finally says with a slight nod. “But I maintain that this is a terrible idea.”

“Noted, Your Highness,” I say, relieved that he’s agreed. “Trust me, I would not be doing this if we had another option.”

We walk toward the palace doors, where on the other side a car is waiting to take us to the restaurant. The palace staff open them for us, and the cool evening air hits my bare shoulders. Hugo notices my slight shiver and hesitates, like he might offer his jacket, but then seems to think better of it as I slip my coat around my shoulders.

As we step outside, the reality of what I’ve gotten myself into begins to sink in. I’m about to have a private dinner with one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors — a man who features regularly in “World’s Most Handsome Royals” lists, a man whose future wife I’m supposed to be finding.

A palace guard opens the car door, and Hugo gestures for me to enter first. As I slide across the leather seat, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me, her eyes wide with nervousness and something that looks suspiciously like excitement.

Hugo settles beside me, careful to maintain a respectable distance. The car pulls away from the palace, carrying us toward an evening that suddenly feels unpredictable. I’m usually the one orchestrating perfect dates for others, carefully controlling every variable. Tonight, I’m stepping into the spotlight myself, and despite all my planning and preparation, I have a strange feeling that this practice date might throw more than a few curveballs my way.

CHAPTER 12

HUGO

The royal car glides through the city streets, unnervingly exposed without our usual motorcade. I keep stealing glances at Emily beside me, her profile caught in flashes of streetlight. She hums to herself, completely at ease, while my collar feels two sizes too small. This whole “practice date” idea is ridiculous — I’m a prince, not some awkward teenager — but I know that if I don’t at least partially go along with my mother and Emily’s plans, they will simply dig their heels in and try harder.

“Relax, Hugo. Your security detail is right behind us.” Emily nods toward the unmarked car following at a discreet distance. “The point of tonight is to feel normal for once.”

I straighten my tie and choose not to tell her that it isn’t being outside of the palace that has me on edge; it’s being with her. “I haven’t been normal since I was born.”

“That’s why you need the practice.” Her smile is small but powerful. “How can I find you the perfect match if I don’t know how you behave on a date?”

I grunt in response. That’s another topic I currently don’t feel like touching. If I’m persistent enough, though, both she and my mother will eventually drop the matter. Emily will return to America and get on with other clients, and my mother will find someone else’s life to meddle in.

The car stops outside a small restaurant tucked between two larger buildings. The sign is small and wooden, soft yellow lamps illuminating the façade. No photographers, no crowd of curious onlookers, just a single host waiting at the door. A glance through the windows makes the place look like it is closed.

“You rented the entire restaurant?” I ask as Emily leads the way inside.

“Your mother’s budget was generous.” She winks over her shoulder.

I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed. The interior is warm and intimate without being stuffy — exposed brick walls hung with local artwork, tables dressed in crisp white linens, candles flickering everywhere. It’s nothing like the formal state dinners I’m used to.

Then Emily hands her coat to the host, and my mouth goes dry.

The vibrant red dress she’s wearing falls just below her knees, simple but perfectly fitted to her petite frame. A small pendant nestles at her throat, catching the candlelight when she moves. I don’t know what to say. How to react. What to think.

I’ve spent days with Emily invading my space and mucking up my life, but I’ve never actually looked at her until now. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Something wrong?” she asks, tilting her head.

“No, just—” I clear my throat. “You look different outside the palace.”

“So do you. Less princely, more man-about-town.”

The host leads us to a table in the center of the empty restaurant. It feels absurd — an entire dining room, staff hovering nearby, all for just the two of us. I pull out Emily’s chair before the server can reach it, an automatic gesture that makes her smile.

A tall man in white chef’s attire approaches, his hands clasped in front of him. “Your Highness, Ms. Neale, I am Chef Laurent. It is my pleasure to serve you tonight.”

Emily beams at him. “The pleasure is ours. I’ve heard wonderful things about your restaurant.”

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