Page 39 of His Royal Matchmaker

We agree on noon, and I slide my phone into my pocket with a strange flutter in my chest. This is dangerous territory. Any romantic entanglement between us would be inappropriate at best, scandalous at worst. But I can’t bring myself to care as much as I should.

The next morning, I spend more time than usual choosing what to wear. I settle on dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt — casual by royal standards, which is exactly the point.

Going to the garages, I select my rarely used Audi and drive it out front. No security detail today, and I’m enjoying just how good it feels to be out on my own — or out with just Emily.

She emerges from the palace wearing a yellow sundress and low heels. Her face brightens when she sees me behind the wheel, and it is as if my stomach does a somersault.

“No royal entourage today?” she asks, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Left the crown at home too,” I reply, enjoying the way her scent fills the car — something light and citrusy that suits her perfectly and seems to be coming from her hair.

“I’m honored,” she says, buckling her seatbelt. “So, where are we going, mystery man?”

“About twenty minutes outside the city. It’s not far.”

We drive through the city, then along winding country roads. With the top down and the wind blowing around us, it’s impossible to talk, but I don’t mind. Merely being together is delicious, a treat of the kind I never allow myself to have.

“So this house,” she says as we turn onto a private road lined with oak trees. “Is it some kind of royal hunting lodge? Secret palace? Underground lair?”

I smile. “Nothing so exciting. Just a house I bought after university. Before…” I don’t need to finish. Before my father died. Before I became the responsible prince. Before my lifestopped being my own and I essentially moved into the palace so that I could cut the time suck of a commute out of my day.

The house comes into view — a two-story stone building with large windows and a wraparound porch. It’s substantial but not ostentatious, set amid gardens that are maintained by a gardener. Despite the fact that I hardly spend any time here, there is a guardhouse with a guard always keeping an eye on things. He comes out and bows at me before lifting the gate, and I give him a wave then park at the end of the drive.

“It’s beautiful,” Emily says, her voice soft with genuine appreciation. “It looks like a real home.”

“That was the idea,” I reply, getting out of the car. “Though I don’t get to stay here as often as I’d like.”

Inside, sunlight streams through the windows, falling on hardwood floors and comfortable furniture. There’s a lived-in quality despite my absence — books on shelves, a guitar in the corner, photographs on the walls. This place holds pieces of me that the palace never could.

Emily moves through the rooms like she’s reading a book, touching surfaces, examining photographs, peering out windows. “This makes so much more sense now,” she says.

“What does?”

“You.” She turns to face me, her expression thoughtful. “The person behind the prince. The guy who likes old Western novels and apparently plays guitar and has a weird collection of…” She squints at a shelf. “Are those vintage beer steins?”

I feel my cheeks warm. “A phase in university. My roommate got me started.”

“I like it,” she declares. “It’s unexpected. Like finding out Superman collects stamps.”

“Hardly Superman,” I say, leading her through to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

As I prepare the coffee, Emily pulls something from her bag — two books. She sets them on the counter with a small smile.

“Light reading for our house tour?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Actually, these are for you.” She pushes them toward me. “I’ve been thinking about our conversations. About what you said regarding relationships and your concerns about them.”

I look at the titles:Building Lasting PartnershipsandThe Myth of Perfect Love. They’re not the typical romance-advice books I’d expected.

“These are about healthy expectations,” she explains. “About understanding that lasting relationships aren’t fairy tales, but that they’re still worth having.” Her fingers brush against the cover of one book. “I thought they might help with some of your concerns.”

I turn the books over, checking them out. “Thank you.”

To my surprise, I find myself reading one of the back covers. I might even read the whole book…

“May I speak bluntly?” Emily says.

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