Page 49 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

I rush upstairs, shedding my pajamas and pulling on something neutral, something effortless. A fitted black turtleneck is tucked into high-waisted cream trousers, and my sleek ankle boots click against the floor as I move. My makeup is minimal—just enough concealer to hide the lack of sleep, a swipe of mascara to keep me from looking too exhausted, and a nude lip that says, “I’m composed.” I’m fine.

Even if I’m not.

I pull my hair back into a loose bun, a few strands framing my face. I tell myself I don’t care how I look, that it’s just another workday at Mia’s flower shop, where Graham and I were supposed to be finalizing wedding designs for Ethan and Riley.

But as I catch my reflection in the mirror, I realize the truth.

I do care. I tell myself it’s just the job, but I know better. I need to stay away from Graham before he further takes hold of my heart.

And that ticks me off more than anything.

With a frustrated exhale, I grab my bag and head outside.

And that’s when I see it.

My car.

The flat tire that left me stranded yesterday? Fixed.

I freeze, blinking at it like it might somehow explain itself.

Mia never mentioned getting it repaired. I didn’t call anyone. And yet, here it is, good as new.

A slow realization creeps in, settling deep in my chest.

Graham.

I don’t want to name it, the warmth that blooms at his thoughtful gesture, at the way he’s trying to rescue me. Before I can dwell too much on it, my phone vibrates in my bag.

I sigh, already bracing myself as I pull it out. “Claire?”

“Emergency,” she says, breathless. “Mrs. Whitmore is losing her mind because the wrong centerpiece designs were sent to her. She’s threatening to drop us if we don’t fix it—now.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. This woman.

“Fine,” I mutter, already slipping into problem-solving mode. “Give me two minutes. I’ll jump on a video call when I get to the shop.”

“Make it fast.” Claire sounds one breath away from combusting. “She’s threatening to hire another planner.”

I hang up, slide into my car, and head straight for Mia’s flower shop—the place she so graciously let Graham and me use to work.

The moment I step inside, the scent of fresh roses and eucalyptus fills the air, but I barely register it.

My focus is on fixing this mess.

I move quickly, setting up in the back corner, away from customers. Within seconds, I’m on a video call with Mrs. Whitmore, nodding through her frantic complaints and taking notes with practiced precision.

I don’t notice the door open, but I know when he walks in because my body suddenly becomes aware that he is nearby. I finish the call and look up.

And there he is.

Graham.

Standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, watching me. My stomach flips before I can stop it. I hate that it does.

He looks… unfairly good. Like he didn’t spend the night battling his thoughts, like he didn’t almost kiss me in this very shop yesterday. His dark jeans fit a little too well, and his black Henley stretches across his broad chest. The sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal those forearms—the same ones I spent way too long thinking about last night.

My stomach flips, but I force myself to stay steady.

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