Page 62 of His Royal Matchmaker

My heart drops. So he did find someone after all. The kiss we shared was truly nothing other than that — a silly kiss.

“Oh. Well.” I raise my chin. Clear my throat. Will myself to not cry. “I’m glad to hear it worked out with?—”

“You,” he interrupts. “It is you, Emily.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending.

“You didn’t fail at finding me love,” he continues, stepping closer. “You succeeded beyond measure. You just didn’t realize that the person you were matching me with was yourself.”

The noise of the party fades to a distant hum. “Hugo…”

“You accused me of playing with your feelings, of wanting our time together to be nothing but a fling.” A flash of hurt crosses his face. “Is that really what you thought of me?”

“I thought…” I swallow hard. “I thought I was being practical. You’re a prince. I’m a matchmaker from California. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Love rarely does.” He takes another step closer. “Emily, I’m not here for just any reason. I’m here because I won’t walk away again — not unless you can look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t feel what I feel. That there isn’t somethingbetween us worth fighting for, worth figuring out, no matter how complicated.”

His gaze holds mine, unwavering. In it, I see the man who listens intently when others speak, who carries the load of responsibility with grace, who still sometimes sneaks dessert before dinner like the boy he once was.

“I can’t,” I whisper, and tears spill over before I can stop them. “I can’t say that.”

His expression softens, hope replacing uncertainty. “Then tell me what youcansay.”

The truth pushes past all my carefully constructed barriers, the professional distance I tried to maintain, the practical objections I listed in my head like bullet points.

“I love you.” The words feel both terrifying and freeing. “I’ve been trying so hard not to, but I do.”

A smile breaks across his face, transforming it. “So, the expert matchmaker finally admits I’m her match?”

“It seems that way.” I laugh through my tears. “Though the logistics are a nightmare.”

“Logistics,” he scoffs, his hands finding my waist. “They are just details. And details can be worked out by people who are determined enough.”

“Are you? Determined?”

“Emily.” He says my name like it’s precious. “I flew across an ocean and tracked you to a rooftop party. I’d say determination isn’t in question.”

And then he’s kissing me, and the crowd and the music disappear. His lips are warm and certain against mine, his hands steady at my waist. I taste promise and possibility and the sweet relief of finally, finally being exactly where I’m meant to be.

When we part, I’m breathless and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Around us, the party continues, oblivious to the fact that my entire world has just realigned.

“So,” Hugo says, his forehead resting against mine, “what happens now, matchmaker?”

I look up at him, at this unexpected match that no algorithm could have predicted, and feel a certainty I’ve never known before.

“Now,” I say, “we write our own love story.”

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER: HUGO

The city of Paris unfolds beneath us like a love letter written in lights and centuries-old stone. I watch Emily lean against the hotel room railing, her profile silhouetted against the evening sky, and I can’t help but marvel at how much has changed in a year.

Over twelve months since she stormed into my life with her matchmaking clipboard and determined smile. A year of learning each other, of building something I never thought possible for someone like me.

“What are you staring at, Your Highness?” she asks, turning to face me with that crooked smile that still makes my stomach flip.

“Just admiring the best view in Paris,” I reply, joining her at the railing.

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