Page 11 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

ORSON

We walked in silence for a few blocks, my mind still churning from our conversation at Mechanics Hall.

Floris’s words had hit too close to home, exposing doubts I usually kept buried under equations and problem sets.

The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The way I’d felt in that concert hall, surrounded by history and craftsmanship…

But I couldn’t think about that. I had a plan, a purpose. Dad had died making sure I lived. I couldn’t waste that sacrifice chasing some romantic notion about old buildings.

“You’re doing it again,” Floris said, his voice cutting through my spiral.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you get lost in your head and look like you’re solving differential equations.” He bumped my shoulder gently. “Come on, that coffee shop you’ve been raving about is around the corner. I’ll buy you something with enough caffeine to draw you out of your head.”

I wanted to be annoyed at how easily he read me, but there was something disarming about his casual concern. “I don’t need?—”

“Let me guess, you don’t need caffeine because you run on pure determination and mathematical formulas?”

Despite myself, I smiled. “Something like that.”

The coffee shop appeared ahead, a narrow storefront wedged between two larger buildings.

The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans hit us as soon as we opened the door, and I felt some of my tension ease.

This place had become my sanctuary during study breaks, though I’d never mentioned that to Floris.

Inside, exposed brick walls and worn, wooden floors gave the space a cozy feel. Edison bulbs hung from the ceiling in artistic clusters, casting warm light over mismatched furniture and local artwork. The afternoon crowd had thinned, leaving several comfortable spots open.

“This is nice,” Floris said, looking around with genuine interest. “Very… Worcester.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You know, historic but trying to be hip about it.” He grinned. “Like you.”

I rolled my eyes, but warmth crept up my neck. “Order your coffee, you idiot.”

“One venti caramel macchiato with extra whip and—” Floris started.

“They don’t do Starbucks sizes here,” I cut in, unable to hide my amusement. “And please don’t ask for anything with whipped cream. The baristas are coffee purists.”

“Ah.” He studied the chalkboard menu with exaggerated concentration. “So I should probably avoid asking for anything with ‘Frappuccino’ in the name?”

“Unless you want to watch them die inside. ”

The barista—a guy with impressive tattoo sleeves and a carefully waxed mustache—waited with barely concealed judgment as Floris considered his options.

“In that case, I’ll have whatever he usually gets,” Floris said finally, gesturing to me. “Since he clearly knows his way around here.”

“Cold brew, black,” I told the barista. “And he’ll have the same.”

Floris’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s intense.”

“Trust me.” I led him to my favorite corner, where worn, leather armchairs faced each other across a scarred, wooden table. “Their cold brew is different. Smooth, not bitter.”

He settled into one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “You come here a lot?”

“It’s quiet. Good for studying.” And for escaping when our room felt too small, when his presence became too distracting. Not that I was going to tell him that part.

“Of course it is.” His tone was gently teasing. “Heaven forbid you do something for enjoyment.”

I was saved from responding by the arrival of our drinks. Floris took a cautious sip, then his eyes widened.

“Okay, you were right. This is actually good.”

“Try not to sound so surprised.”

Floris laughed, and something inside me tightened at the sound.

“You know what this reminds me of? There’s this tiny coffee shop in Amsterdam, hidden in some back alley where few tourists ever venture.

They roast their own beans too, and the owner is this grumpy old man who refuses to serve anything but black coffee.

No sugar, no milk, definitely no whipped cream. ”

“Sounds perfect.”

“You would think that.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Maybe I’ll take you there someday. ”

The casual offer caught me off guard. “To Amsterdam?”

“Why not? You could see the Delta Works in person. Plus, all those historic buildings you pretend not to be fascinated by…”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Floris?—”

“I know, I know. We don’t talk about your secret love affair with historical architecture.” He held up his hands in surrender. “We’ll change the topic, I promise.”

“Thanks.” I took a long sip of coffee to avoid meeting his eyes. The cold brew was perfect as always, smooth and strong without being bitter. Like Floris himself, I thought, then immediately tried to un-think it. “What was it like, growing up in the public eye?”

Floris was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on his coffee cup. The afternoon light filtering through the windows caught the green in his eyes, making them almost luminescent.

“Complicated,” he said finally. “Everything you do, every choice you make, is scrutinized. It’s like living in a fishbowl where the fish are expected to perform on command.”

I waited, sensing there was more.

“You know what’s weird?” He leaned forward slightly.

“The hardest part isn’t the big stuff, like the formal events, the speeches, the official duties.

Those were manageable for me since the king is my uncle and not my father.

My cousins have it much harder in that aspect.

But even then, it’s the small things. Like not being able to have a bad day in public, or knowing that if you trip or say something stupid, it’ll probably end up on social media. ”

“I can’t even imagine. How old were you when you realized you weren’t like everyone else?” I asked Floris.

“Four or five, maybe?” Floris took another sip of his coffee, his expression thoughtful.

“There was this moment in kindergarten that stands out. I’d made this absolute disaster of an art project with glue and glitter everywhere.

The teacher started to tell me it was okay, that not everyone could be good at art, but then she caught herself.

Suddenly, my mess was ‘very creative’ and ‘showing real potential.’” He made air quotes with his fingers.

“That’s when I first noticed adults treated me differently.

Not the kids. They were too young to realize, and that lasted until midway through elementary school.

And after that, most kids were determined to make sure I wouldn’t feel special, so they sure as hell never gave me preferential treatment.

The Dutch are pretty good at that, keeping your ego in check.

But the adults, that was a different story.

And once I was eighteen, the agreement the royal family had with the press about not harassing the kids no longer applied since I was now a legal adult, so that brought massive press interest.”

“That must be exhausting. Always being watched, waiting for the next headline.”

“It is. But you get used to it. You learn to be careful.” He traced the rim of his coffee cup. “Though sometimes, being careful isn’t enough.”

The resigned acceptance in his voice bothered me more than it should have. “Is that why you’re so good at wearing masks?”

His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“You have different versions of yourself. The charming prince, the carefree student, the serious engineer. But sometimes…” I hesitated, wondering if I was overstepping. “Sometimes, I catch glimpses of someone else. Someone who feels more real.”

Floris was quiet for a long moment, studying me with those intense, green eyes. “You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”

“Engineering brain. We’re trained to notice patterns. ”

“Is that what I am? A pattern to analyze?”

There was something in his voice I couldn’t quite read. “No, you’re…” I searched for the right words. “You’re more like one of those historic buildings. Complex layers under a carefully maintained facade.”

His laugh was surprised and genuine. “You’re comparing me to architecture? After you came at me for saying you were similar to a building?”

Heat crept up my neck. “Maybe?”

“You know, most people try poetry or music for metaphors. But you go straight for load-bearing walls and structural integrity.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but I was smiling despite myself.

“No, no, I like it.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tell me more about my complex layers. Do I have good bones? Strong foundation?”

“I take it back. You’re more like that waffle truck: all flash and questionable substance.”

Floris’s dramatic gasp drew looks from nearby tables. “I am wounded. Mortally wounded. After I bought you coffee and everything.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Will I? Or will I crumble like poorly maintained masonry?”

I laughed. The sound surprised even me. “You’re hilarious.”

His smile faded. “I’ve learned to be entertaining, since that’s what people seemed to expect. I mean, I’m not forcing it, don’t get me wrong. But it did grow out of necessity originally. You learn pretty quickly that there’s the real you and the public you, and those aren’t always the same person.”

Something in his voice resonated with me—that sense of performing, of trying to live up to expectations. Though in my case, it was one person’s expectations. My own. “Is that why you’re here? To find out who the real you is?”

His green eyes met mine, startlingly direct.

“Partly. But mostly I’m here because I’m tired of being careful all the time.

Of second-guessing every word, every action.

” Floris paused, then added quietly, “Of being perfect. I can make normal mistakes here, like leaving my laundry in the dryer too long or getting lost on campus.” His lips curved into a smile.

“Nobody knows who I am, so nobody’s watching, waiting for me to mess up. ”

“Except me,” I pointed out.