Page 46 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

Sophie maintains eye contact with me, her chest heaving and her clothes completely wet. She might end up getting sick, and it’s all because she’s stubborn.

“You could catch a cold,” I say.

“That’s none of your business. I can take care of myself.” Her voice comes out barely a whisper, amplifying the already existing tension between us.

I’m stuck between fueling my desire for her or maintaining my distance, and it’s so hard. I cannot deny just how badly I want Sophie. It feels like the two of us have been doing this dance for ages, and this is the tipping point.

“Sophie.” I inch closer to her, raising my hand slowly until it’s resting on her cheek. I see the heat rush to her skin at my touch, and it makes me feel good.

“Graham, don’t. We can’t,” she whispers, and I shake my head. I place my free hand on her other cheek, both of my hands now cupping her beautiful face.

“Why can’t we?”

“I don’t want you to do something you would end up regretting,” she says.

“I would never regret doing anything with you. You have no idea how hard it’s been staying away from you.”

The look of uncertainty disappears in her eyes, replaced with yearning and desire. I know she feels the exact pull I think right now, and I can’t keep stopping myself; I’m going to kiss her. I move closer to her, our lips inches away from each other. Just a slight bend, and I would finally claim her lips.

And then the sound of shattering glass jolts us both.

I turn sharply to see a broken vase on the floor, one of the shop’s many bouquets finally succumbing to the weight of its soggy stems.

Sophie takes a step back, her arms wrapping around herself as if to shield herself from what almost happened between us.

The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, tapping against the shop’s windows as I bend down to pick up the broken vase pieces scattered on the floor. The tension in the air is as thick as ever; Sophie is standing a few feet away with her arms crossed, watching me like she’s not sure whether to yell at me again or leave.

I toss the larger shards into the trash, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “Come on,” I say, my voice quieter now, though it still carries an edge. “I’ll take you home.”

She hesitates, her eyes narrowing. “I’m fine. I can?—”

“Enough, Sophie,” I cut her off, meeting her gaze firmly. “The rain hasn’t stopped, and your car isn’t going anywhere with that flat. Just let me take you home.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to argue again, but then she lets out a sharp breath and grabs her bag.

“Fine,” she mutters, brushing past me.

The drive to Mia’s house is silent, the kind of silence that feels louder than any words.

Sophie stares out the window, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her posture stiff and closed off. I keep my hands on the wheel, my eyes on the road, but the weight of her presence beside me is impossible to ignore.

The rain continues to drizzle, the wipers swishing back and forth as the headlights cut through the dark.

I want to say something, to fix the mess I’ve made, but every time I open my mouth, the words die before they can leave.

What can I say that will make this better?

“I didn’t mean it,” I say finally, my voice low.

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me.

“I was frustrated,” I continue, gripping the wheel tighter. “And I said something I shouldn’t have.”

Still nothing.

The knot in my chest tightens, but I force myself to keep going. “You’re not spoiled, Sophie. I know that. I see how hard you work. I just?—”

“Save it,” she says, her tone sharp but quiet. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”

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