Page 6 of His Royal Matchmaker

“Not one meeting, no. You will go on any dates Emily arranges for you. If she either finds you a match or she deems you unmatchable… which is unlikely… then I will drop the matter.”

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Wonderful!” She beams at me like I’ve just agreed to world peace instead of a matchmaking appointment. “You won’t regret this, Hugo.”

“I already do,” I mutter.

CHAPTER 3

EMILY

My suitcase gapes open on the bed like a hungry mouth, half-filled with a jumble of clothes I’ve already changed my mind about three times. The ceiling fan whirs overhead, stirring the warm air but doing little to cool my flushed face as I press my phone between my ear and shoulder and fold a silk blouse for the fifth time.

“I still can’t believe my best friend is going to a real palace to matchmake for an actual prince,” Nova says over the line. “You’re basically living out a Disney movie.”

“Except I’m not the one falling in love with the prince,” I remind her, tossing aside a sweater that’s too bulky. “I’m just finding him someone who will.”

“Details, details.” Her dismissive tone makes me smile despite my packing stress. “So you’re really going to be there for several weeks? In a palace? With servants and everything?”

I pause, holding up a cocktail dress that might be too fancy — then again, maybe not fancyenoughfor royal events. “That’s what they said. The queen wants this done properly, whichmeans I need to understand the prince’s environment, his duties, the?—”

“The eligible women of the Marzieu upper crust,” Nova finishes for me.

“Exactly.” I fold the dress carefully and tuck it into the corner of my suitcase. “Which means I need clothes for every occasion. Casual meetings, formal dinners, outdoor activities — who knows what they’ll have me doing.”

“You still haven’t told me how this even happened. One minute you’re matching Hollywood’s elite, and the next you’re flying to Europe for royalty?”

I sit on the edge of my bed, pushing aside a pile of shoes. The memory of that phone call still makes my stomach flip with excitement.

“Okay, so I was sorting through profiles for that new client — the tech CEO who wants someone ‘authentic’ but also happens to look like a supermodel.”

“Aren’t they all like that?” She snorts.

“Pretty much.” I laugh, leaning back against my pillows as I continue the story. “So, I’m sitting there with these files spread across my desk when Micah comes in and says I have a phone call from the royal palace of Marzieu. And his face was so serious that for a second I thought he was pulling my leg.”

Even though my assistant isn’t known for practical jokes, I had trouble believing an actual European palace was calling. Why me? Why then?

Nova gasps appropriately, fully invested in my story. “What did you do?”

“I laughed! I literally laughed in his face and said, ‘Good one! Who is it really?’ But Micah just stood there, his eyes wide, and said, ‘I’m not joking, Emily. They’re holding for you right now.’”

I remember how my heart had skipped then, a sudden fluttering of disbelief and wild possibility. But the practical side of my brain immediately suspected a prank.

“So I took the phone, already planning how I’d get back at whoever was behind this. I said, ‘This is Emily Neale,’ in my most professional voice. And this man with an accent says, ‘Miss Neale, my name is Leon Duvall, head of royal appointments for the Palace of Marzieu. I’m calling on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Julia.’

“I still thought it was fake. I actually said, ‘Right, and I’m calling on behalf of the Easter Bunny.’”

Nova lets out a surprised laugh. “You didn’t!”

“I did! I was so sure it was a friend playing a joke.” I cringe at the memory, grabbing a handful of socks from my drawer and tossing them into the suitcase. “But it wasn’t. He asked if I would be willing to come to Marzieu for several weeks to work with the prince directly. All expenses paid, plus my regular fee. He started explaining about accommodations at the palace and?—”

“Wait, you’re stayinginthe palace?” she interrupts, voice rising with excitement.

“Yes! In the guest wing.” I still can’t quite believe it myself. “Anyway, he was going through all these details, and then he casually mentioned they’d like me to fly out on Sunday.”

“Sunday as in, tomorrow?”

“Exactly!” I throw my hands up, nearly knocking over a stack of books on my nightstand. “I almost said it was too soon. I have other clients, appointments, my whole life here. But then I thought…”

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