Page 27 of His Royal Matchmaker

“Work has kept me occupied,” she says, looking away.

“Ah.”

“This soup is amazing,” she says, changing the subject. “The chef deserves every star he’s earned.”

I take a spoonful, grateful for the distraction. “It is good. Though I once had a chef who put gold flakes in everything. Made my teeth look like I’d been in a fight with a glitter bomb.”

She laughs, and just like that, the tension dissolves. We move through the next courses with surprising ease — roasted vegetables arranged like a garden, fish so fresh it barely needed cooking, a lamb dish that makes me close my eyes in appreciation.

I find myself telling her about past dinners gone wrong — the time an ambassador’s toupee fell into the soup, the visiting dignitary who got drunk and tried to waltz with a statue. She counters with stories of disastrous matches and dates she’s orchestrated that went spectacularly off-track.

“Wait,” I say, nearly choking on my wine. “He brought his mother to the date?”

“And his grandmother!” Emily wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “The poor woman thought she was meeting one eligible bachelor, not a three-generation interview panel.”

“What did she do?”

“Ordered the most expensive item on the menu, three times. Said if she had to entertain the whole family tree, she might as well get a good meal out of it.”

I laugh so hard my chest hurts. When was the last time I had fun like this? The realization sobers me slightly. Between council meetings and diplomatic crises and the endless paperwork of running a nation, there’s been little room for simple joy.

Emily notices the shift in my mood. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Just…” I gesture vaguely. “This is nice. Better than I expected.”

“You thought it would be terrible?”

“I thought it would be pointless. A hoop to jump through to satisfy my mother.”

Her eyes soften. “And now?”

Our feet brush under the table as she crosses her legs, and I feel a spark — static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless.

“Now…” I shake my head. “It is nice to let loose for a while.”

The dessert arrives before she can respond — dark-chocolate mousse topped with berries and edible flowers. We eat in companionable silence, the weight of the evening settling around us like a comfortable blanket.

As the last plates are cleared away, I lean back in my chair. “So, how did I do? Am I dateable, or a lost cause?”

Emily dabs her lips with her napkin, all business again. “You did surprisingly well once you stopped overthinking everything. You’re attentive, you ask good questions, you know how tolisten.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You’ll make a wonderful match for a very lucky woman.”

The words hit me with unexpected force. For the first time since this matchmaking ordeal began, I have a fleeting thought: if I am to marry, I would like it to be to someone like Emily — vivacious, intelligent, ambitious. Someone who makes me laugh, who sees through my work façade.

The thought is gone as quickly as it appears. Emily works for my mother. Her job is tofindme a match, not tobeone.

“Don’t look so relieved,” she says, misreading my expression. “You can’t relax just yet. I have an afternoon of speed dates set up for you tomorrow.”

I groan, the fantasy bursting like a soap bubble. “Speed dates? Really?”

“The more you humor me, the sooner I can find you a match and be out of your hair.” She gathers her clutch, signaling the end of our evening. “Unless you’re starting to enjoy my company?”

She says it teasingly, but I can’t bring myself to joke back. The truth is, I don’t want Emily to go away — not immediately, anyway. But she also can’t stay forever. My original plan was to frustrate her efforts, to be so difficult that my mother would give up on the idea of an arranged marriage altogether.

Now I’m not so surewhatI want.

“Hugo?” She prompts, her use of my first name without the title so seductive that I wonder if I should ask her to stop saying it so I don’t go insane.

“Just wondering how many of these hurdles you’ve set up for me,” I say, covering my confusion.

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