Page 34 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

“Right? Bardstown’s bakery never misses,” I say, grinning. “Manhattan wishes it had a bakery this good!”

We eat in comfortable silence, the kind that feels surprisingly natural. But then, as I take another bite, something sticks to my lips—a crumb from the crust.

Graham notices before I do.

“You’ve got a little something,” he says, gesturing to his upper lip.

I reach up, trying to brush it away. “Here?”

“Higher,” he says, chuckling.

I try again, but apparently, I miss the spot.

“Here, let me,” he says, his voice softening as he leans forward.

Before I can protest, his fingers graze my lips, brushing the crumb away with the gentlest touch, and my breath hitches. My body responds to his touch with so much intensity, it nearly floors me.

The moment lingers, his hand still near my face, his eyes meeting mine.

And just like that, the air between us shifts.

The casual ease from a moment ago is gone, replaced by something heavier, something charged. My skin tingles when his fingers touch me, the sensation radiating outward until it feels like every nerve in my body is on high alert.

He doesn’t move, his gaze locked on mine, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

“Graham,” I say softly, though I’m not sure what I’m about to say.

His hand drops, and he leans back, breaking the moment.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.

“Don’t be,” I say quickly, my voice barely above a whisper.

But he doesn’t look at me again. Instead, he picks up his fork, focusing on the pie like nothing happened.

I sit there, my heart still racing, wondering how something so simple—so small—could feel so monumental. Graham and Ifall silent as we continue working, and I wonder if what just happened between us changes anything.

GRAHAM

I’m out of the flower shop before Sophie can say another word, my boots crunching against the gravel as I head straight to my truck. My mind is racing, and my heart is still pounding from the moment we just shared.

The way her eyes locked on mine. The soft curve of her lips as she smiled, oblivious to the way she was undoing me with every second that passed.

I grip the steering wheel as I drive, the cool breeze coming through the open window doing little to calm the heat burning in my chest. I don’t even bother turning on the radio; the silence feels safer, less likely to trip me up with reminders of how close I came to losing control.

By the time I get home, I’m practically pacing as I step inside, the walls of my small house suddenly feeling too close, too confining.

What is wrong with me?

I toss my keys onto the counter, yank off my jacket, and head straight for the bathroom. I turn the shower on full blast, coldwater cascading down in an unforgiving rush. It’s shocking, but that’s the point.

I step under the spray, the chill biting into my skin as I brace my hands against the tiled wall.

My mind keeps replaying the moment—the feel of her skin under my fingertips, soft and warm, the way her eyes widened just slightly when I touched her. It wasn’t just the physical pull. It was something deeper, something that hit me right in the chest and hasn’t let go since.

I close my eyes, letting the water drip down my face as I picture her again. Her smile, her laugh, how she lights up a room without even trying.

And then I picture what it would’ve been like to kiss her.

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