Page 40 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to focus. “Call Marcy at the floral shop on Fifth. She might have a lead on orchids. And if not, offer the client white hydrangeas as an alternative. They’re elegant and way easier to get on short notice.”

Claire mutters her agreement before launching into another detail, but my attention drifts as I move to a nearby display. My eyes land on a vase filled with bright yellow daisies, their cheerful simplicity catching me off guard.

For a moment, I can almost hear Riley’s voice in my head, gushing about wanting her wedding to feel “joyful and warm, like the start of summer.”

It’s a good reminder of why I’m here, but the vase slips from my hand before I can set it back.

The sound of shattering glass jolts me out of my thoughts, and I freeze, staring at the pieces scattered across the floor.

“Claire, I’ll call you back,” I say quickly, ending the call and dropping to my knees to pick up the shards.

The first piece digs into my palm before I realize what I’m doing, a sharp sting cutting through the haze of my distraction.

“Oh no,” I mutter, wincing as blood wells from the cut.

“Stop!”

Graham’s voice startles me, and I look up to see him standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation.

Before I can say anything, he strides over, crouching to take my wrist gently but firmly in his hand. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning up,” I say defensively, trying to pull away. “It’s fine?—”

“It’s not fine,” he interrupts, his tone sharper than usual. “You’re going to hurt yourself more if you keep picking up glass with your bare hands.”

“I’m careful?—”

“You’re not careful, Sophie,” he snaps, releasing my wrist and pulling a clean rag from the nearby counter. “You wouldn’t even think to use something else. You’d just dive right in like you’ve never had to deal with a mess before.”

His words hit me like a slap, and I sit back on my heels, my chest tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, pressing the rag against my hand a little too forcefully, “that you’ve lived your whole life as a rich kid. You don’t know how to handle stuff like this because you’ve never had to.”

I stare at him, my breath catching in my throat and in utter disbelief because I have no idea where therich kidcomment emanated from. My cousin Ethan is better suited for that phrase. I try to withhold myself from being mad as I speak. “Is that what you think of me?”

His jaw tightens, and I can see the regret flicker across his face, but it’s too late.

“Forget it,” I say, pulling my hand away and standing up quickly.

“Sophie—”

“No,” I snap, shaking my head as I back toward the door. “I can’t believe you would say something like that.” His words hurt me more than I can explain.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I just?—”

“Save it,” I cut him off, my heart pounding as I grab my bag. “I need to go.”

Before he can say another word, I’m out the door, my footsteps echoing against the pavement as I make my way home.

The cool evening air does nothing to soothe the sting of his words or the ache in my chest.

Rich kid.

I wrap my arms around myself as I walk, the weight of his comment settling heavily on my shoulders.

Why does it matter so much what he thinks?

And why does realizing that he might see me that way hurt so much?

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