Page 40 of His Royal Matchmaker

I set her coffee in front of her, on the island. “Please.”

I’m holding my breath, though, not sure I truly want to hear what’s on her mind. Unless it has something to do with the two of us closing the space between us and?—

“Are you dragging your feet?”

“No.” The word comes out too fast, too forceful.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re not just trying to tire me and your mother out until we give up on you?”

I should have known I could not fool her for long. She’s too astute, too intelligent.

“Emily…” I clear my throat.

“Actually, never mind.” She shakes her head. “Thank you for the coffee.”

I stare at her, surprised that she is dropping the topic nearly as quickly as she brought it up. Especially considering that this is her job we are talking about — although I suppose she gets paid whether or not she finds me a match.

“These aren’t about finding the perfect person,” she continues, pointing at the books. “They’re about building something meaningful once youdofind someone worth trying with.” Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I wonder if there’s another message beneath her words.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll read them.”

By “read them,” I mean glance through them enough so that if she asks, I can provide convincing responses that make it look like I read every page.

We take our coffee out to the back porch, settling on a swing that creaks softly beneath our weight. The garden stretches before us, a tangle of late-summer flowers and uncut grass.

“So,” I say, deciding to turn the conversation, “ever since we met, the focus has been on me. But what about you? You mentioned that your relationships tend to be measured in months, not years.”

She wraps her hands around her mug, her smile turning wry. “I spend so much time focusing on other people’s love lives that mine gets neglected.”

“That can’t be the whole story,” I press.

She sighs, looking out at the garden. “The truth is less interesting. I’m a hopeless romantic working in an industry that should have cured me of that by now.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve dated nice guys. Fun guys. Smart guys. But I keep waiting for that feeling — that certainty that this is right.”

“And you’ve never felt it?”

“Almost,” she admits. “Twice. But timing was wrong, or priorities were wrong, or…” She shrugs. “Something was always wrong.”

“And yet you still believe in it,” I observe. “In finding your perfect match.”

“Not perfect,” she corrects. “Justright. There’s a difference.”

She turns to me, her expression suddenly vulnerable. “Actually, I’ve been doing some thinking recently. About my life, my work. I’m good at what I do — really good — but I’ve been so focused on building my business and helping clients that I’ve forgotten to live my own life.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“When was the last time I took a real vacation? Or dated someone without analyzing why it wouldn’t work long-term within the first five minutes?” She laughs softly. “I think I need to take my own advice. Take a break. Find love for myself.” Her eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us.

“And what would that look like?” My voice sounds different, even to my own ears.

“I don’t know exactly,” she says. “But I think it would feel like… letting go. Stopping all the calculating and justfeeling.”

The swing creaks between us. I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, of the space where our shoulders almost touch.

“Do you think that’s possible?” I ask. “To just stop thinking and start feeling?”

“I hope so,” she says softly. “Don’t you?”

I look at her — really look at her — and allow myself, just for a moment, to imagine what it would be like. Emily and me, together. Morning coffee on this porch. Her laughter filling these rooms. Her hand in mine, not as my matchmaker, but as my partner. The fantasy blooms in my mind with surprising vividness — walks through the garden, quiet evenings by the fireplace, her head on my shoulder as we talk about everything and nothing.

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