Page 37 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

Sophie notices, her eyes flicking toward me briefly. “Important call?” she asks, her tone neutral.

“Nothing I can’t handle later,” I reply, keeping my focus on the road.

She doesn’t press, and I’m grateful for it. The last thing I need right now is to explain why I’m dodging calls from a life I left behind.

The Holloway estate is as stunning as ever, its sprawling gardens and grand façade catching the afternoon light. It’s the perfect backdrop for Riley and Ethan’s wedding, but the amount of work it will take to get it ready is daunting.

We unload our supplies and set up near the lake, where Sophie spreads out her planner and starts outlining the layout. I grab my sketchbook and begin working on the landscape design, mapping out where the seating, floral arrangements, and other elements will go.

The tension between us lingers, thick and unspoken, but I’m determined to break through it.

After an hour of working in silence, I decide to make peace the only way I know how—with food.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” I say, setting down my pencil.

Sophie looks up, her brow furrowing slightly. “Where are you going?”

“Getting us pizza,” I reply simply, brushing the dirt off my hands.

She hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”

I return with a large pizza and a couple of sodas, setting the box on the table we’ve been using as a workstation.

Sophie glances at it, her lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Thanks.”

I feel like I’m doing too much, but I tell myself it’s just practical that two people working together should eat.

“Figured we could use a break,” I say, grabbing a slice and leaning back against the table.

She takes a slice, eating slowly, her gaze drifting back to her notes even as she chews.

We eat in silence for a while, but it feels less strained than before. The simple act of sharing a meal seems to ease some of the tension, and I decide to test the waters with small talk.

“You always this much of a perfectionist?” I ask, gesturing toward her meticulously organized planner.

She raises an eyebrow, her smile becoming more pronounced. “Are you calling me a perfectionist?”

I shrug. “If the color-coded tabs fit…”

She laughs softly, the sound light and genuine, and for the first time all day, it feels like the distance between us is shrinking.

“Fine,” she admits, setting her slice down. “I am a perfectionist. But you’re one to talk. You’ve redrawn that same section of the garden three times already.”

I smirk, leaning over to glance at her planner. “It has to be right. No point doing something halfway.”

“Exactly,” she says, nodding.

We just sit there for a moment, the shared understanding settling between us like a bridge.

“I guess we have that in common,” she says after a while, her tone thoughtful. “Being perfectionists.”

“Maybe,” I reply, finishing my slice. “But there’s worse things to be, right?”

She smiles again, softer this time, and I feel the tight knot in my chest loosen slightly.

The light is starting to fade, painting the Holloway mansion in warm gold and soft purples. We’ve made good progress, mapping out the layout and marking sections of the garden where certain features will go.

Sophie’s sitting cross-legged on the grass now, her planner opens in front of her, a pen twirling absentmindedly between her fingers. I leaned back against the fountain, a sketchbook balanced on my knees, scribbling out an alternate design for the pathway leading up to the ceremony area.

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