Page 29 of His Royal Matchmaker

He follows me to his designated spot, and I catch a whiff of his cologne — one that he hasn’t worn before, with hints of cedar. I push the feeling that it inspires down deep.

The doors open and the candidates enter, a collection of elegant, accomplished women in cocktail attire. I’ve met them all during pre-screening, and they’re genuinely impressive — teachers,artists, diplomats’ daughters, philanthropists, and one Olympic equestrian. Any one of them could be a princess.

I stifle a sigh as I direct them to their starting positions. But why on earth should I sigh? This is exactly what I want — what Hugo needs. A perfect match. My job is to find him someone who complements his life, his duties, his future. My job is not to notice how his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he gives a genuine smile.

The first round begins, and I stand aside, clipboard ready, observing. This is usually my favorite part — watching connections form, noting chemistry, measuring body language. Today, though, I find my attention drifting repeatedly to Hugo himself rather than the interactions.

He’s different today. More engaged. He leans forward slightly when asking questions. His posture remains impeccable, but there’s a new responsiveness to him. When a brunette in a green dress says something amusing, he actually laughs — a brief, rich sound that carries across the room.

Something sharp and unexpected twists in my chest. I mark down “good rapport” on my notes, but my pen presses harder than necessary.

The timer chimes, and each woman shifts to the next table. As the second round begins, I force myself to be more methodical. Objective. Professional. I note which candidates maintain eye contact, which ones get Hugo to talk with his hands (only two so far), which ones make him check the clock.

By the fourth rotation, I’ve identified three strong contenders, which should make me happy. Instead I feel… hollow. Like I’m watching something precious being auctioned off. Which isridiculous because: a) Hugo isn’t an object; b) he isn’t precious to me personally; and c) this is literally my job.

But, God, when did my throat get so tight?

Sipping water, I remind myself of the dozens of successful matches I’ve made. The wedding invitations that arrive at my office. The baby announcements. I’m good at this. I know what makes people compatible.

A redhead in a stunning blue dress is currently sitting across from Hugo. Her hand touches his forearm briefly as she makes a point, and he doesn’t pull away. My stomach twists again.

Oh, no.

I recognize this feeling. It’s happened before — this inconvenient attraction to clients. Usually, I can stamp it out easily. A brief crush, a professional reminder to myself, and it’s gone. But this… this feels different. Deeper.

I turn away, pretending to check my notes as the next rotation begins. This is just because I’ve been working too hard and I haven’t been on any dates. I’m probably starved for a connection with a man.

That’s it. And when was my last vacation?

I can’t even remember. A year ago? Longer?

Nova is right. I’ve been so focused on making others happy that I’ve neglected myself. No wonder I’m developing inappropriate feelings for a client. My emotional wires are crossed from exhaustion.

That’s all this is.

With that settled, I straighten my shoulders. When I get back to LA, I’m taking a week off. Maybe I’ll go to that spa in Arizona my friend recommended. Hikes in the morning, massages in the afternoon, no princes anywhere.

The thought steadies me through the next few rounds. I watch Hugo interacting with a stylish blonde who works for the UN. They seem to be discussing international policy, and he’s fully engaged, gesturing occasionally to emphasize a point. The woman nods eagerly, clearly impressed by his knowledge.

He’ll make some woman very happy someday. If only that woman could be me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that I had the thought. Maybe I need two weeks off instead of one. Two weeks of no one else, no matchmaking, no thinking about anyone else’s happiness but my own. When was the last time I did that?

“Are you all right?”

I jump. One of the palace staff is looking at me with concern.

“Fine,” I whisper back. “Just making notes.”

She nods and moves away. I plaster on my professional smile and continue observing. Round eight begins. This woman has Hugo smiling within the first minute — a good sign. They seem to be sharing a joke. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

I write “excellent chemistry” and underline it twice, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach.

By the time we reach the final rotation, I’ve identified four strong matches for Hugo. This is a better success rate than I usually have at these events. I should be thrilled.

Instead, I’m mentally calculating how much a two-week vacation at that Arizona spa would cost. Maybe I could add on a side trip to the Grand Canyon. I’ve never seen it.

I’m so lost in my escape plans that I almost miss it — Hugo’s eyes, not on his date, but on me. When our gazes connect, he doesn’t look away immediately as I expect. Instead, there’s a moment, just a fraction of a second, where something passes between us across the room. Something that makes my heart shoot up into my throat.

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