Page 25 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

“Good,” she says. “You won’t regret this.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I won’t say it. Instead, I end the call and stare out the window, the sky fading into the soft hues of dusk.

If I do this, I’ll need to be careful. Sophie can’t know too much, and I’ll have to set boundaries.

But as much as I try to convince myself it’s just another job, I know it’s not.

Because Sophie isn’t just another person passing through Bardstown. She’s more, something I can’t put my finger on… something special.

And that scares me more than I’d like to admit.

The morning is crisp and bright as I park my truck in front of the Holloway Estate on the outskirts of Bardstown. Sophie’s car pulls up moments later, a sleek black sedan that looks entirely out of place on the gravel drive. She steps out, dressed in tailored pants and a cream blouse that looks like it came straight off the pages of a designer catalog. Her heels click against the uneven ground as she approaches, her posture perfect, her movements deliberate.

She looks so beautiful; it’s almost unreal. I clear my throat, trying to get my thoughts in order. Sophie carries herself like royalty. It’s in the way she glances around, her gaze assessing, sharp but not unkind. She stands with effortless grace, as if the world was built to accommodate her.

I’ve seen that posture before, that poise.

It’s the same way my mother used to stand during royal functions, her head held high, her presence commanding the room without a single word, effortlessly embodying the expectations placed on us.

And now, here’s Sophie Davis, radiating the same quiet authority and unshakable confidence.

It’s like a slap in the face, pulling me back to the castle—back to a life I’ve spent years trying to leave behind.

“Good morning. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this with me. I hope my sister didn’t hassle you too much?” she asks, her voice smooth and polite, with just the faintest edge of curiosity.

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Morning. Surprisingly, it didn’t take much for her to get me on board. I could say working on this with you is kind of like my wedding gift to Riley.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you. Let’s take a look around, shall we?” She smiles.

“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms as I watch her. “It’s a little overgrown, but it’s great. The vines, the garden area—it works.”

She nods thoughtfully, stepping closer to the archway and brushing her fingers lightly against the stone. “It’s beautiful,” she says, almost to herself. “But it needs a lot of work.”

There it is again—that tone, that air of quiet authority. She’s not wrong, of course. The place does need work. But the way she says it—decisive, almost detached—reminds me of how my father used to discuss the castle grounds as if they were a project to be managed rather than a place to live in.

I clench my jaw, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“What’s it like being back?” I ask suddenly, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

She turns to me, her brows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

"I just wonder how it feels, coming home after so long," I say, my tone sharper than I intended. "Does it still feel like home to you?"

Her lips press together briefly like she’s weighing her response. “It’s family. I grew up here, Graham. Bardstown is my home,” she says finally, her voice calm but firm. “My cousin’s wedding is here, and I wanted to help. That’s all. Why do you ask?”

I glance away, focusing on a patch of wildflowers growing near the edge of the property. I tell myself to let it go, to do the job, and move on.

“I just thought we’d talk about something while we work.” She gives me a perplexed look that says she wasn’t expecting that response from me, considering my track record of being the town’s recluse. “Shall we check the other side?”

Her head tilts slightly, her gaze narrowing as she studies me, her eyes glimmering as she smiles. “Are you always this impatient?”

I can tell she’s joking, but at the same time, her question catches me off guard, and I feel my jaw tighten. “I’m just trying to save us both time.”

“Well,” she says, turning back to the archway, “time isn’t something I’m worried about. I want to get this right.”

She’s not wrong, but the way she says it grates on me. It’s not her fault—I know that. But standing here, listening to her talk aboutgetting things “right,” all I can think about is my father’s voice echoing through the castle halls.

“Perfection is a prince’s duty,” he used to say. “Anything less is a failure.”

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