Page 16 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

Orson always had a study group on Wednesday afternoons, so I had set up a FaceTime call with Greg, Nils, and Tore so we could talk in private. I settled on my bed, propping my phone against my laptop as Greg’s face filled the screen, soon joined by Nils and Tore in their separate windows.

“Finally escaped your roommate, then?” Greg’s posh accent came through clearly.

As if I would ever want to deliberately escape Orson’s presence. I wasn’t looking too deep into the why of that feeling, though.

“He’s at his study group,” I said, adjusting my position. “How’s everyone doing?”

“Bloody brilliant,” Tore said. “I’m loving college life. Though that asshole Farron is still being a dick.”

Nils frowned. “Farron?”

“The star defender on his football team,” I helpfully supplied. “You know, the one Tore can’t stop talking about for more than five minutes?”

“Shut up, Floris,” Tore growled, but his cheeks reddened .

“What? I’m providing context for our forgetful hockey prince here.” I grinned innocently at the camera.

Nils’s eyes lit up. “Ah, right. That one.”

I focused on Tore again. “What did the walking attitude problem do this time?”

“He keeps challenging my plays during practice. Like yesterday? I had this perfect set-up for a goal, but Mr. Know-It-All starts yelling that I’m not following proper formation.

” Tore’s face flushed with frustration, his jaw clenching.

“Then he has the nerve to demonstrate the ‘correct’ way, which was exactly what I was doing in the first place!”

“Sounds like someone’s trying to get your attention,” Greg teased.

“Yeah, my attention to punch him. He deliberately shoulders past me in the locker room too. Who does that?”

“Someone who desperately wants to feel your muscles?” I suggested, waggling my eyebrows. “I mean, there are easier ways to cop a feel, but maybe he’s shy.”

“I swear to god, Floris, when I see you next?—”

“You’ll thank me for my incredible insight into the human heart? Why, you’re welcome!”

“Shut your face,” Tore snapped, and I held up my hands in a mock surrender.

The way Tore’s eyes lit up when he talked about Farron, even if it was to complain, told me everything I needed to know about his true feelings for him.

But I valued my life too much to point out just how many times he’d mentioned Farron in our last three calls.

“Speaking of attention,” Nils said, his face brightening, “I got some news. Remember that assistant hockey coach position I mentioned? At the college near Buffalo in upstate New York?”

“Yeah?” I leaned closer to my screen. “The one where you’d have to brave the American winter? Are you sure you don’t want to apply somewhere tropical instead? I hear Hawaii has ice rinks.”

Nils rolled his eyes. “They’ve invited me for an interview next week. Through Zoom, obviously, but that didn’t seem to be an issue for them.”

Since Nils was older than us by a few years, attending college as a student wasn’t an option for him. The good news was that he had a degree in sports and experience as a hockey coach, not to mention he’d played hockey for years at a competitive level. He’d be perfect for this job.

“That’s amazing, Nils!” Greg said and Nils’s smile widened even more. “You’ll do brilliantly. I know you will.”

“God, I hope so. It’s the first college that has shown serious interest so far. Well, I’m not counting the two that offered me a salary that was below what we would pay interns.”

“I have every confidence you’ll get the job,” I said. “Though I still can’t believe you’re choosing to live somewhere that gets more snow than Sweden.”

“Some of us actually like winter sports, you wimp,” Nils shot back with a grin.

“Oh, I love snow. I just thought you would’ve been sick and tired of it by now.”

Nils seemed to consider it. “Nah, not even close. I love the cold.”

“Well, Buffalo should be a good fit, then. From what I understand, they get a buttload of snow each winter. So as the Americans would say, fingers crossed.”

Greg frowned. “You don’t say the same in Dutch?”

I shook my head. “No, we call it duimen , which means thumbing. As in, I’ll be thumbing for you. Which is what the Germans call it as well, though their expression is that they’ll press their thumbs for you. ”

“That’s fascinating.” Tore leaned forward. “In Norwegian, we say fingrene krysset , which is also fingers crossed, but I know in Swedish, it’s h?lla tummarna , which is holding your thumbs, translated literally. Why does one language mention all fingers and others only thumbs?”

I grinned. “Maybe because the Dutch, Germans, and Swedish are only moderately wishing you luck, whereas the Brits, Americans, and Norwegians are fully on your side? Though I have to say, if you’re really committed to someone’s success, you should probably cross your toes too. Go big or go home, right?”

“Only you would turn well-wishes into a competition,” Greg said with a laugh.

“Hey, I’m just saying, if we’re going to wish Nils luck, we might as well use all available digits. I’m personally willing to cross my eyes too, but that might make this video call a bit challenging.”

“When exactly is the interview?” Tore asked Nils.

“Next Thursday. I’m nervous as hell, but?—”

Nils was cut off by the sound of my door opening.

I turned to see Orson walking in, his backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing that soft, green sweater that made his eyes look like molten chocolate. My heart did that weird flutter thing it had started doing lately whenever he appeared.

He stopped short when he saw me on the call. “Oh, sorry,” he said, already backing toward the door. “My study group was canceled, but I can come back later.”

“No!” The word came out louder than I intended. “I mean, stay. Actually…” I glanced at my friends on screen, who were watching with varying degrees of curiosity. “Would you like to meet some of my friends?”

Orson hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I could see the uncertainty in his eyes, but also his desire not to make things awkward. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” I assured him, patting the space next to me on the bed. “Come on.”

Was I imagining the slight pink tinge to his cheeks as he sat down and settled beside me, his thigh barely brushing against mine? The contact sent a familiar warmth through my body that I tried desperately to ignore.

“Everyone, this is my roommate, Orson,” I said to the screen. “Orson, meet Greg, Nils, and Tore.”

“Hello,” Orson said, giving an awkward little wave that was somehow both dorky and adorable.

“Mate, Floris has told us so much about you,” Greg said warmly. “All good things, I promise.”

“All lies, I’m sure,” Orson said with a self-deprecating smile that made me want to list every wonderful thing about him.

“Actually,” Nils chimed in, “he mentioned you’re the only reason he’s passing calculus.”

I elbowed Orson gently. “See? I give credit where credit’s due.”

“Speaking of credit,” Tore said, “Floris tells us you’re into photography? Got any embarrassing shots of him we can use for blackmail?”

“Oh god,” I groaned, but Orson’s laugh next to me made it worth it.

“Sorry to disappoint, but Floris is annoyingly photogenic,” Orson said. “Even when he’s face-planted in a pile of leaves.”

“That was one time!” I protested, remembering how I had slipped on wet leaves that day and had landed rather inelegantly. Orson had taken some pictures before helping me up. “And I thought we’d agreed to never mention that again. ”

Orson tapped his chin. “Funny, that’s not how I remember it. My recollection is that you begged me to forget it ever happened and that I told you I wasn’t sure if I could do that. I made no promises.”

That had the others in stitches, of course, even more when I pouted.

“You’re all terrible people,” I declared. “I don’t know why I’m friends with any of you.”

“Because we’re charming and delightful,” Greg said with a grin that had charmed countless tabloid photographers.

The conversation flowed easily after that, with Orson fitting into our dynamic as naturally as if he’d always been there.

My friends asked him questions about his photography, his classes, his family, and he answered everything with that quiet confidence I’d come to associate with him.

He and Greg got into an animated discussion about modern versus classic architecture, while Tore kept trying to get Orson to share more embarrassing stories about me.

“There has to be something,” Tore insisted. “You’re living with our resident disaster gay prince. Has he tried to microwave metal yet?”

“That was one time,” I protested, “and I maintain that container didn’t clearly state it had a metal handle. Plus, I was twelve, okay?”

“He did wash his red socks with a white shirt again last week,” Orson offered, his eyes twinkling. “Then declared his now-pink shirt to be the new fashion color this fall.”

“Betrayal!” I clutched my chest dramatically. “And here I was, about to nominate you for roommate of the year.”

When Greg mentioned something about his sister Charlotte’s latest charity event, I caught the slight widening of Orson’s eyes, the barely perceptible straightening of his shoulders, but he didn’t say anything. I watched him carefully, wondering if he was connecting the dots.

When we finally ended the call forty minutes later, Orson was quiet for a moment, still sitting close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“So,” he said slowly, “that was Prince Gregory… Right?”

“You recognized him?”

“Kind of hard not to. He’s only been on every major news outlet since birth.” Orson turned to look at me, his expression unreadable. “And the others?”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah. They’re also princes. Nils is from Sweden, Tore from Norway.”

“Oh god.” Orson buried his face in his hands. “I talked about architecture with the prince of England.”

“Technically, he’s not the prince of… Never mind,” I said quickly when Orson’s face tightened. “I know they’re all royals like me, but they’re my friends and they’ve had my back for as long as I can remember. It’s not easy finding true friends in my world.”

“I can’t believe I told a bunch of princes about that time you got stuck in the revolving door at the library,” he groaned.

“Hey, that door was definitely malfunctioning,” I defended myself. “And besides, they’ve seen me do way worse. Ask Tore about the time we tried to convince the palace guards I could speak to ducks.”

He let out a sigh. “I wish I had known. I would’ve shut up. God, I probably sounded like an idiot.”

“Hey.” I touched his arm gently, trying to ignore how my fingers tingled at the contact. “You were perfect. They loved you.”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” I smiled, remembering one of my favorite movies. “Have you ever seen Notting Hill , with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Do you remember that moment where Julia’s character, Anna Scott, is giving that speech in the bookstore? About being just a girl?”

He nodded.

“That’s kind of what it’s like for us. We may be princes, but underneath, we’re just guys, standing in front of others, asking them to…” I trailed off, realizing too late what I was quoting, and heat rushed to my face.

Orson’s warm, brown eyes met mine, something soft and undefined passing between us. The air felt thick suddenly, charged with possibility. My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Thanks for including me,” Orson said quietly, breaking the moment. But his smile held a warmth that made my stomach flip.

I watched him get up and head to his desk, presumably to study, and tried to calm my racing heart.

What was happening between us? Was this proof that whatever it was, he was feeling it too?

I had no idea, but was I brave enough to find out?

The thought of ruining our friendship terrified me, but the way my body reacted to his presence, the way my heart lifted at his smile…

Maybe some risks were worth taking. I just had to figure out if this was one of them.

And maybe stop quoting romantic comedies before I completely exposed myself.

Though knowing my luck, I’d probably end up recreating the entire pottery scene from Ghost before I managed to actually tell him how I felt.