Page 32 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

“Do you have the seating chart?” Graham asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Oh, right,” I say, flipping through my planner until I find the page. “Here it is. Riley wants the guests seated in a semicircle, facing the fountain.”

He nods, glancing at the sketch. “That works. I’ll adjust the walkway to lead into the seating area.”

We fall into an easy rhythm after that, exchanging ideas and fine-tuning details. I do my best to focus on the work, but now and then, my gaze drifts back to Graham—his quiet concentration, the way he leans over the table as he draws.

A few days later, we’re back at the flower shop, deep in the planning process. The Holloway mansion is shaping up beautifully on paper, and I can already picture how it will look on the big day—elegant, romantic, exactly what Riley wants.

But today, I’m feeling off.

It starts with a faint headache, followed by a wave of dizziness that makes me grip the edge of the table for support.

“You okay?” Graham asks, glancing up from his sketch.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, though my voice comes out weaker than I’d like.

He frowns, standing and moving toward me. “You don’t look fine. Sit down.”

I shake my head, trying to brush it off. “I’m just a little tired. It's been a lot between Riley and my clients in Manhattan, but I’m managing.”

“Sophie,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Sit.”

Reluctantly, I lower myself into the chair, still gripping the table's edge as the dizziness ebbs and flows. Graham disappears into the back room, returning moments later with a glass of water.

“Drink,” he says, handing it to me.

I take it, grateful for the coolness against my palm. “Thanks.”

He watches me closely, his expression unreadable. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though the words feel hollow.

“No, you’re not,” he counters. “You’re overworked, and it’s catching up with you. Take the rest of the day off.”

“I can’t,” I protest weakly. “There’s too much to do?—”

“I’ll handle it,” he interrupts, his tone firm but not unkind.

I stare at him, surprised by the offer. “You’ll handle it?”

“Yes,” he says, already turning back to the table. “Go home. Rest. I’ll finish the sketches for today.”

For a moment, I consider arguing, but the truth is, I don’t have the energy. The dizziness has drained me, leaving me feeling fragile in a way I hate.

“Okay,” I say quietly, setting the glass down. “But only for today.”

He nods, already focused on his work again.

I linger for a moment, watching as he picks up his pencil and leans over the table. His concentration is absolute, his hand steady as he brings the sketches to life with a precision that feels almost hypnotic.

Something about his calm, methodical, yet completely immersed work style makes it impossible to look away.

I wonder, not for the first time, what brought him to Bardstown. What made someone with this kind of talent choose a small town over a bigger stage?

But I don’t ask.

Instead, I gather my things and quietly slip out of the shop, leaving him to his sketches and my thoughts to their questions.

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