Page 35 of Royally Matched
She’s not for me. Even if she wasn’t interested in getting to know Enzo, I know a woman like Sofia would never go for a man like me. It’s as clear as day I’m not her type. I’m a laid-back guy who loves to nurture plants and explore the world. To me, life’s an adventure, and I take it one day at a time, finding joy in simple things—like a new bloom or a fresh passport stamp.
That’s about as far from a woman like Sofia as you can get.
Best I kick any feelings I may have for this unobtainable princess to the curb.
I scrape my fingers across my chin. It’s hard enough having to come to an event like this without having to watch Enzo and the princess do their best approximation of a couple of wooden dolls with less than zero chemistry between them.
I know they’re only spending time together to get to know each other right now, but all of this will inevitably lead to them becoming engaged. Enzo is determined, and if there’s one thing I know for sure, when my big brother sets a goal for himself, he achieves it.
The thought tightens my chest.
Is it just concern for my brother, entering what would probably be a loveless marriage, at least at the start? Or is it something more, something I don’t want to admit, even to myself? Something that’s been gnawing away at me since the moment I first met Sofia at the ball.
Why is she choosing him when it’s me she so clearly wants?
I clench my jaw. It shouldn’t matter. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to agree to something as certifiably insane as an arranged marriage with her. I do feel a pull of attraction, a desire to get to know her better, to see what makes her tick. And yes, knowing how she feels in my arms, getting to breathe in her scent, pressing my lips softly against hers? Oh, yeah. That’s something I know I want to explore.
But I’ve felt like that about other women before, and I know from experience that attraction can wither and die just as easily as it blooms.
She’s not for me. She’s for Enzo. I need to remind myself that.
I make my way to the back of the large room where a waiter pours me more coffee from a silver pot. Surprisingly, I notice two labradors, one golden and one black, sleeping on a large mat. I bend down to pet them, and their tails thump against the floor briefly before they snort back to sleep.
Those have got to be the best trained labs I’ve met in my life, with the place teaming with people, sipping coffee and talking. I guess when you’re royal you can afford the best pet trainers.
At least they offer me a reprieve from trying to work Princess Sofia out.
I lean up against the wallpaper and pull out my phone to check for emails. Nothing, at least not from the organization I’m hoping to hear from.
Despite my lack of experience, I applied for a redesign of one of the city’s parks, a place I know well. My friend, Muhammad, who I met when we played for the same soccer club as teenagers, grew up across the street from it. It’s overgrown these days, complete with cracked concrete paving and people’s unwanted stuff, everything from amattress to a broken sink. It’s in desperate need of a freshen up, and a repurpose, in my mind, as a space fit for the community it’s located in.
My idea is to dispense with the disused rose gardens that’ve been a feature of the park since I can remember, replacing them instead with a playground the local kids will love. I’ve planned a wooden painted pirate ship with tall slides, climbing nets, and tons of space to run around. It would be like a mini adventure park, surrounded with trees and hedges, an expansive lawn for kicking a ball around, and park benches for parents to sit and chat as their kids play. This area of town, with its tall, soulless apartment blocks and almost total lack of greenery, is crying out for this park.
It’s a big commission, and one I would be lucky to get with my lack of experience. But I have a clear vision of what I think the park could be. And anyway, don’t they say nothing ventured, nothing gained? I’m venturing in the hopes of gaining, and I’ve got nothing to lose.
A young woman, who looks a lot like Princess Sofia, approaches me, and I push myself off the wall, wondering if I’ve broken some royal law by leaning against it.
“You’re the brother,” she says without preamble as she proffers her hand. “I recognize you from your photo.”
“I am. And you are?”
“Amelia, the younger sister,” she says.
Right. Princess Amelia. I bow my head. “My name is Marco Revera. It’s an honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness.”
“Oh, forget about all that,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Call me Amelia.” She gestures at my brother and Princess Sofia. “How’s this disaster-in-the-making going?”
If I was in any doubt as to how Amelia feels about her sister’s scheme, I’m not now.
“It’s… err, going,” I reply as tactfully as I can.
I’m not exactly going to tell her the truth, that it’s like watching a couple of people have their fingernails pulled. Or like a train wreck, moving in slow motion. I’ve not decided which. Maybe a slow-moving train wreck in which the passengers are having their fingernails pulled? Yup, that’s it.
Now, if it were me out there with the princess, and she was looking at me the way she does? Well, let’s just say we’d be the opposite of a slow-moving train wreck.
A high-speed one?
I chortle.