Page 58 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

I hate that it hurts.

I hate that every time I walk into Mia’s flower shop, I half expect to see him standing by the counter, waiting for me with that unreadable expression.

I hate that I keep checking my phone like an idiot, hoping for something—some explanation, an apology, an excuse.

But mostly?

I hate that despite everything, despite knowing better, I still miss him.

I shove a clipboard under my arm, balancing my phone between my ear and shoulder as I walk briskly across the wedding venue. The afternoon sun beats down on the open field, and the scent of fresh-cut grass and sawdust fills the air as the final framework for the gazebo is put up.

“No, Claire,” I say into the phone, dodging a stack of wooden crates near the catering setup. “We cannot change the entire reception layout five days before the event. The ballroom is booked, the centerpieces are ordered, and—no.” I stop near the floral tent, flipping through my notes. “You need to tell the client that last-minute changes like this aren’t possible unless they want to double their budget.”

I barely register her frustrated sigh before I hang up, already moving to my next task.One wedding at a time, Sophie.

The gazebo comes together beautifully, and its structure stands tall at the center of the outdoor venue. I wipe the sweat from my brow and step onto the wooden platform, running my fingers along the edges of the frame, mentally checking that everything is as it should be. The white lattice is in place, the fairy lights are still boxed up but ready to go, and the floral team is set to arrivein two hours to begin draping the soft pink peonies and greenery around the beams.

Perfect.

“Sophie!” Mia’s voice rings out from behind me. I turn to see her approaching, a water bottle in one hand and a clipboard in the other, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. “You need to take a break before you pass out.”

“I don’t have time for a break,” I huff, stepping down from the gazebo. “The florist team is late, the baker still hasn’t confirmed the final cake delivery time, and the rentals for the reception tables got mixed up with another event.”

Mia hands me the water anyway, crossing her arms. “And whose fault is that?”

I unscrew the cap, taking a quick sip before answering. “Some assistant who apparently can’t tell the difference between the Wilson Wedding and the Wilson Gala.” I rub my temple. “Two completely different events, Mia. But now Ethan and Riley’s guest tables are sitting in a ballroom fifty miles away.”

Mia snorts. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

I sigh. “It is.”

But it’s also a distraction.

And right now, I need as many distractions as possible.

I glance toward the gazebo again, catching sight of the carpenter double-checking the beams. For a second—just a second—my mind flashes to him. I was impressed by the way Graham moved when he worked, the quiet intensity, and the way he would notice every single detail before I even had to say a word.

I shake the thought away and turn back to Mia. “Did you confirm the floral delivery?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, eyeing me like she knows exactly what I’m doing—burying myself in work so I don’t have to feel anything else.

She’s not wrong.

“Good.” I nod, tucking my clipboard under my arm again. “Then I need to check on the guest chairs and make sure they’re being set up in the right formation.”

Mia rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

She doesn’t stop me as I march across the field, directing the workers to unload the chairs, adjusting the seating chart for the millionth time, and confirming the lighting placements for the evening reception.

I move nonstop, drowning in schedules and checklists, ensuring every detail of this wedding is coming together perfectly.

Because if I stop, even for a second, I’ll start thinking about Graham again.

And I can’t afford to do that.

Not now. Not ever.

I barely get five steps toward the seating arrangements before Mia catches up to me.

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