Page 48 of That Prince is Mine
“So is that what you want? To marry some nice man my mom matches you up with?”
“Someone who’s compatible to me in every way.” She raised her index finger for emphasis. Compatibility was key. Love and attraction faded, but you could always fall back on a common background. “Someone who has so much in common with me that we would never drift too far apart.”
“And who is this guy you met at the hotel café? What the hell do you mean you’ll date him until you convince yourself that you two are incompatible?” Jeremy’s voice rose along with his obvious frustration. “What did you say before? That you wanted to marry some ‘nice Korean American man from a middle- to upper-middle-class family’? Why can’t he be that someone?”
“Because he’s a filthy-rich European man who I plan to prove has absolutely nothing in common with me.” She blinked away the sudden tears that threatened to fall. What was wrong with her? Jeremy was just aggravating her. That was all. “But he is very nice.”
“Fine. There’s something very wrong with your logic in all this. But fine.” Her godbrother scrubbed his face with both hands like it wasn’t fine at all. “Then why are you dating the guy in the first place? Why do you have to prove to yourself that he has nothing in common with you?”
“Because he was becoming an unwelcome distraction to my efforts to find a perfect-on-paper husband.” She smoothed out her shirt to avoid her godbrother’s bewildered gaze. Explaining her reasons out loud made them sound less than logical. “I figured once I went out on a few dates with him and proved that we were hopelessly incompatible, he would be out of my system and I could focus on my matseons.”
“Why draw a line in the sand like that?” Jeremy tilted his head to the side.
“Because.” Emma threw her hands up, dangerously close to tears again. “He’s a visiting professor at USC. He’s going back to his country in a couple of months.”
“Even knowing he won’t be around for long, he wanted to… what… have a fling with you?” Her godbrother’s mouth twisted with distaste.
“No, he’s not like that,” she countered, automatically defending Michel. “What I mean is… he wanted to spend time with me even if it’s only for a short while. And… I like him, oppa. I really like him.”
“Then why can’t you leave all the options open? That’s what I don’t get.” He dragged a hand through his hair.
“What options? Leave my life here and follow him to Rouleme? What about my business? What about my dad? I can’t abandon him.” She wrapped her arms around her midriff. “Besides, didn’t you hear a single word I said? He and I have nothing in common. I’m not going to make the foolish mistake of ‘following my heart’ like my parents did.”
“Oh, Emma.”
“Don’t.” She held up her palm. She did not need his sympathy. “Don’t you dare venture into psychology again. I know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. The only reason I told you any of this was because you’re like a brother to me and I badly needed to vent. I don’t need your permission, and I don’t want your advice.”
After a pause, Jeremy arched an eyebrow and said, “I thought you were trying to buy my silence.”
“That, too.” She shot him a grateful smile. He wasn’t going to push her any further.
“I assume that means you’re going to whip up something droolworthy for me.”
“You assumed right.” Emma rubbed her hands together. Their talk had drained her emotionally, and she needed to recharge with some comfort food. “Kalguksu?”
“Hand-cut noodle soup?” Jeremy pursed his lips. “I was hoping for lunch, not dinner.”
“Give me forty-five minutes.”
“I knew you were good”—he whistled under his breath, shaking his head—“but not that good.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift,” she said primly.
Her godbrother chuckled and stood from his stool. “How can I help?”
“You can help knead the dough in a second.” She pulled out a mixing bowl and a bag of flour. She added a sprinkle of salt and splashes of ice water until a rough dough formed. “Here. I need you to knead this until it’s smooth and stretchy. Put some elbow grease in it. It’ll make the noodles chewier.”
Jeremy rolled up his sleeves and did as he was instructed. Satisfied with his progress, she filled a pot with water for the broth. She pinched her lips to the side. Seafood broth would be best. It was rich, flavorful, and quick. Her shoulders fell away from her ears and the knot in her chest disappeared as she relaxed into the cooking.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, “I need to meet this fancy European guy of yours.”
Annnnnd… her shoulders stiffened right back up. But how bad could it be? Michel was a nice guy. Jeremy was a nice guy. It would be fun.
CHAPTER TWENTY
This Jeremy bloke was something else. If he glared any harder at Michel, Sophie might have to jump in front of him to bodily block the death ray. But Prince Michel had years of practice at civility and propriety. If he could smile and play nice with greedy, conniving foreign officials who wanted to take advantage of Rouleme, Michel could endure an hour or two of Jeremy and his homicidal eyes. For Emma.
Even in the smoky, raucous Korean barbecue restaurant—the last one in Los Angeles permitted to use lump charcoal indoors, per Sophie’s research—Emma looked impeccably poised and beautiful in her white off-the-shoulder jumper and black jeans. But she still fit in seamlessly at the no-frills restaurant.
