Page 51 of His Royal Matchmaker

“I wasn’t looking for this,” she whispers. “I was just doing my job.”

“Maybe you are too good at your job,” I say, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “You figured out exactly what I need. It just happens to be you.”

A small, helpless laugh escapes her. “This is crazy.”

“Completely.” I’m smiling now, feeling lighter than I have in years. “But it doesn’t feel wrong, does it?”

Her eyes meet mine, and the professional mask is gone. Now I see the Emily who pushes me in the best way possible. The Emily who always has the perfect quip, an answer to everything, a solution to each problem. The Emily who knows my coffee order and my fears and my dreams.

“No,” she admits softly. “It doesn’t feel wrong.”

I lean in slowly, giving her time to back away. She doesn’t. Instead, her eyes flutter closed, and then my lips touch hers.

The kiss is gentle at first, a question more than a demand. Her lips are soft and taste faintly of champagne. My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, feeling the silky strands of herhair between my fingers. A small sound escapes her, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and something inside me ignites.

The kiss deepens, her mouth opening under mine. My other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her against me. Her hands find my shoulders, fingers digging in slightly as if she needs to steady herself. The cool night air, the sounds of the party inside, the onus of my responsibilities — all of it fades away until there’s nothing but Emily in my arms, her heart beating against mine.

I’m lost in her — the soft curves of her body, the scent of her perfume, the way she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own. It’s everything I didn’t know I was missing, everything I’ve been searching for.

And then, suddenly, her hands are on my chest, pushing me away. The abrupt loss of contact leaves me dazed, blinking at her in confusion.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her lipstick smudged. The vulnerability in her eyes is quickly shuttered, replaced by something that looks too much like regret.

“I can’t do this,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Hugo. I can’t.”

Before I can respond, before I can reach for her again, she is slipping past me, back toward the bright lights of the ballroom. I stand frozen, watching her go, feeling like something precious is sliding through my fingers.

“Emily, wait,” I finally manage, but she doesn’t turn around. Her turquoise dress disappears through the open doors, leaving me alone on the moonlit balcony.

My legs feel unsteady, and I grip the stone railing for support. What just happened? She kissed me back — I know she did. I felt her respond, felt the same connection that’s been growing between us for days. So why did she run?

I stare out at the gardens below, trying to understand. Maybe it’s professional ethics — she’s still technically working for me. Or maybe she’s worried about the public scrutiny that would come from dating a prince. It’s not an easy life; I know that better than anyone.

Or maybe — and this thought twists like a knife — maybe I misread everything. Maybe she was just caught up in the moment, the moonlight and the romance of it all, and I’m the only one who felt something real.

I touch my lips, still warm from her kiss. For five years, I’ve done everything right — put duty first, country first, responsibility first. But tonight, for the first time since my father died, I want to put my heart first.

And my heart is walking away in an emerald-turquoise dress.

CHAPTER 21

EMILY

The palace walls seem to watch me as I pace across my guest suite for the hundredth time today. My shoes make soft thumps against the plush carpet — a rhythm that matches my racing heart.

A day since we returned from Paris, three days of replaying our kiss in my mind until the memory feels worn at the edges, like an old photograph handled so many times that the image is blurry. We haven’t spoken about what happened on that balcony. Instead, I’ve been ignoring him, hoping that somehow the problem will take care of itself.

Stopping at the window, I press my forehead against the cool glass. The palace gardens stretch out below, perfectly manicured and painfully romantic. A place designed for royal proposals and fairy-tale endings. Not for the hired help to have mental breakdowns over clients.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to my reflection. My hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles forming under my eyes from three nights of terrible sleep. “You’re a matchmaker extraordinaire. Get over this. Get over him.”

My stomach twists with the same sick feeling I’ve had since our return flight on the royal jet — the one where we sat three rows apart because I claimed I needed extra legroom and he pretended to believe me. The same flight where I spent an hour staring at the back of his perfectly styled hair, remembering how I wanted to mess it up when we kissed on that Parisian balcony.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I lunge for it, desperate for any distraction. It’s a text from Hugo’s assistant confirming tomorrow’s schedule: breakfast with the royal family, followed by a meeting to review how Hugo’s second dates are going. The very thought makes my stomach drop to my knees.

How am I supposed to sit across from him and discuss other women? Women who might be perfect for him on paper but who don’t know how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he really smiles, or how he absently taps his fingers when he’s thinking, or how surprisingly soft his lips are when?—

“Stop it,” I groan, pressing a hand to my face.

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