Page 18 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

The New Orleans airport was smaller than I’d expected, though still bustling with pre-Thanksgiving travelers.

Like me. I adjusted my backpack, scanning the crowd for Orson’s familiar, wild curls.

He’d insisted on picking me up himself, despite my protests that I could easily get an Uber or a car service.

“Floris!”

I turned at his voice, and there he was, looking more relaxed than I had expected.

The New Orleans humidity had turned his curls even wilder than usual, and his brown eyes were bright behind his glasses.

Something inside me unfurled at the sight of him.

The dorm room had been way too empty without him there.

“Hey.” I pulled him into a quick hug before I could overthink it. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“Of course.” He stepped back, adjusting his glasses in that endearing way he had when feeling slightly flustered. “Though I still can’t believe you flew commercial.”

I grinned. “I’m trying to blend in, remember? Nothing says ‘I’m actually a prince’ quite like showing up in a private jet. Besides, if the Dutch press ever found out I’d flown private, they would have my ass. We’re supposed to act normal, remember?”

“Right, because your designer luggage is so subtle.” He nodded at my Louis Vuitton carry-on.

“It’s practical!”

“It probably costs more than my laptop.”

“That’s…” I couldn’t actually argue with that. “Not the point. Besides, you’re the one who invited me for Thanksgiving. The least I could do is try to be somewhat normal about getting here.”

His expression softened. “You didn’t have to come. I know you had other options.”

“Hey.” I caught his arm, making him look at me. “I wanted to come. After everything you’ve been through lately…” I trailed off, remembering how worried he’d been about his mom. “How is she doing?”

“Better.” Relief filled his voice. “The doctors cleared her to host Thanksgiving, as long as she takes it easy. Which is why you’re here, actually. Mom insisted on having you over after I told her how you helped me get home that day.”

Warmth bloomed in my chest. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“You got me a private plane in less than an hour.”

“All I did was make good use of the privileges I have because of my background.” I shouldered my bag, following him toward the exit. “Anyone in my position would’ve done the same.”

He bumped my shoulder. “Maybe, but you were there, and that’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

Sweet gratitude filled me. “Well, wait until you see what I brought as a hostess gift. Nothing says, ‘thank you for having me’ quite like three-hundred-year-old wine from the royal cellars.”

Orson stopped dead in his tracks. “Please tell me you’re joking. ”

“Of course I am.” I laughed at his horrified expression. “I brought a lovely gift basket with some classic Dutch goodies, including some traditional holiday cookies. Though I did consider bringing the crown jewels. They make excellent conversation pieces at dinner parties.”

“You’re impossible.” But he was grinning now, shaking his head.

“That’s why you like me.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

The humidity hit like a wall as we stepped outside, immediately making my hair curl. Back in Massachusetts, the humidity had made place for a cold, dry air that made my skin itch and my hands crack. “Oh wow. You weren’t kidding about the weather here.”

“Welcome to New Orleans.” His smile was fond. “Where the air is thick enough to chew and your hair has its own agenda.”

“I can feel my styling products giving up already.” I ran a hand through my increasingly unruly hair. “How do you deal with this?”

“Bold of you to assume I deal with it at all.” He gestured to his own curls, which seemed to have expanded in the brief time we’d been outside. “I’ve accepted my fate as a human dandelion.”

I laughed, following him to his car, an older model Toyota that had definitely seen better days. “A very handsome dandelion, though.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Orson’s ears turned pink, but he ignored the comment otherwise and opened the trunk for my bag.

“Mom’s excited to meet you,” he said as we pulled out of the parking lot, clearly changing the subject. “Though I should warn you, she’s probably going to try to feed you until you burst.”

“I look forward to it. ”

American highways all looked the same—not that that was any different back home. But Orson navigated them with ease, confident behind the wheel.

“How’s Tia doing?” I asked.

His expression softened at the mention of his sister. “Better now that Mom’s home. She was pretty scared for a while there.”

“Understandable.” I’d gotten to know Tia a bit through Orson’s stories and the occasional video call. She seemed like a sweet girl, eager to please if somewhat na?ve for her age. Precious, that was the best word to describe her. “And you? How are you holding up?”

He was quiet for a moment, focusing on navigating through traffic.

“I’m okay. It was rough, at first. But Mom’s following all the doctor’s orders, and her prognosis is good.

” He glanced at me briefly. “Thanks again for making it possible for me to get here so quickly that day. I don’t know what I would’ve done if?—”

“Hey.” I cut him off gently. “You don’t need to keep thanking me. That’s what friends are for, right?”

His smile was small but genuine. “Right.”

The city proper came into view, a mix of historical architecture and modern buildings that somehow worked together in a way that spoke of resilience and renewal.

I could see why Orson loved it, despite everything that had happened here.

I watched the unfamiliar landscape roll past—palm trees and sprawling oaks draped with Spanish moss, everything so different from the New England fall we’d left behind.

“I can’t wait to show you the French Quarter,” he said, some of his usual enthusiasm returning. “The architecture is incredible, with a unique blend of French, Spanish, and Caribbean influences. Plus, there’s this café that makes the best beignets you’ve ever tasted.”

“Better than stroopwafels ? ”

“Way better.”

“Them’s fighting words,” I teased, loving how animated he got when talking about his city. Plus, I was proud to show off the expression I had learned days prior. “But I’ll reserve judgment until I try them.”

We turned onto a quiet street lined with modest houses, each with its own character.

Some were painted in bright colors, others were more neutral but had wraparound porches, all with a distinct charm.

Orson pulled up in front of a pale yellow two-story with a white trim and small front garden that looked well-loved.

“Home sweet home,” he said, putting the car in park. “It’s not much, but?—”

“It’s perfect.” And it was. The house had personality, warmth—not something I took for granted despite having grown up in a place that could be described as having grandeur. “Very you.”

He gave me an odd look. “What does that mean?”

“Practical but with hidden charm. Like those built-in bookshelves I can see through the window: functional but pretty to look at too.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Comparing me to architecture.” But he was smiling as he grabbed my bag from the trunk. “Come on, let’s get you settled before Mom sends out a search party.”

The front door opened before we reached it, revealing a girl with Orson’s wild curls and sharp features. She bounded down the steps and threw herself at her brother, who caught her one-armed while somehow managing not to drop my bag.

“You’re late,” she accused, then turned to me with a bright smile. “Hi! I’m Tia. Thanks for letting my brother borrow your private jet. ”

“Tia,” Orson groaned, but I laughed.

“Technically, it wasn’t mine. And I’m Floris. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

“Come in, come in!” A woman’s voice called from inside. “You’re letting all the air conditioning out!”

Orson’s mom stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip. She was smaller than I’d expected, with laugh lines around her eyes and that same determined set to her jaw that Orson got when tackling particularly challenging problems. There was some color in her cheeks, thank god, though she looked tired.

“Mrs. Ritchey,” I started formally, but she waved me off.

“Diana, please. And get in here so I can hug you properly.”

Before I could respond, I found myself enveloped in a warm embrace that smelled of vanilla and something spicy. The hug was firm but gentle, motherly in a way that made my throat tight with how much I missed my own mom suddenly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, just for me to hear. “For getting my son home that day.”

“I—” I started, but she pulled back, holding me at arm’s length to study my face.

“You’re too skinny,” she declared. “Don’t they feed you at that fancy college?”

“Mom,” Orson protested, but there was fond exasperation in his voice. “He just got here.”

“And he’s going to eat proper food while he’s here.” She patted my cheek. “I’ve got gumbo simmering, and there’s bread pudding for dessert.”

My stomach growled right on cue, making everyone laugh. “That sounds amazing.”

“Good answer.” She turned to Orson. “Show him where he’s staying, then bring him back down. The gumbo needs about twenty more minutes anyway. ”

The inside of the house was as charming as the exterior—hardwood floors worn smooth by years of footsteps, walls painted in warm colors and decorated with family photos.

I followed Orson upstairs, trying not to be too obvious about studying the pictures.

There was one of a much younger Orson holding baby Tia, his wild curls even more unruly than now.

Another showed him with a man who must have been his father, both grinning at the camera with identical dimples.

“You can have my room,” Orson said, pushing open a door. “I’ll take the couch.”

“I can’t kick you out of your room?—”

“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.” He set my bag down. “Besides, Mom would kill me if I made a guest sleep on the couch.”

I looked around the room, taking in the details.

Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with engineering texts and what looked like historical architecture books.

A desk sat under the window, everything arranged with Orson’s characteristic precision.

The walls were a soft blue that reminded me of the sky after a storm.

“Bathroom’s across the hall. I’ll let you get settled.”

“Orson.” I caught his arm before he could leave. “Thank you. For inviting me.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Warmth maybe, or understanding. “Thank you for coming.”

We stood there for a moment, my hand still on his arm, and I found myself studying the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the way his curls fell across his forehead. The urge to brush them back was almost overwhelming.

“Boys!” Diana’s voice floated up the stairs. “Gumbo’s ready!”

The moment broke. Orson stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “We should… ”

“Yeah.” I followed him downstairs, trying to ignore the lingering warmth where my hand had touched his arm.

The kitchen was warm and fragrant, steam rising from a large pot on the stove. Diana stood stirring it while Tia set the table, moving with the easy familiarity of a long-established routine.

“Perfect timing,” Diana said, ladling the gumbo into bowls. “Floris, honey, you sit here next to Orson. Have you ever had gumbo before?”

“No, ma’am.” I settled into the indicated chair, watching as she placed a bowl in front of me. It smelled incredible, though I couldn’t place any of the spices.

“None of that ‘ma’am’ business. It’s Diana.” She sat across from me, her movements careful but steady. “Now, the secret to good gumbo is?—”

“Mom,” Orson interrupted gently. “Let him try it first before you give away all your cooking secrets.”

I took a spoonful, and the flavors exploded across my tongue—complex, spicy but not overwhelming, with depths I couldn’t even begin to identify. “This is amazing.”

Diana beamed. “The trick is?—”

“The roux,” I finished, remembering what Orson had told me. “You have to almost burn it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You know about roux?”

“Orson told me.” I took another spoonful, savoring the flavors. “He said it’s what gives gumbo its depth.”

“Did he now?” She looked at her son with something like surprise. “I didn’t know you paid that much attention to my cooking.”

Orson’s ears turned pink. “I pay attention to everything.”

“Except when to take breaks from studying,” Tia piped up. “Or when someone’s flirting with him. ”

“Tia!” Orson choked on his water while I tried very hard not to react to that particular observation.

Diana’s eyes darted between us, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “So, Floris, tell me about your studies. Orson says you’re interested in water management?”

I latched onto the change of subject gratefully, launching into an explanation of Dutch water management systems and my interest in civil engineering.

As I talked, Diana’s eyes kept drifting to Orson, watching his reactions with that particular maternal insight that seemed to see right through carefully constructed walls.

“You know,” she said during a lull in conversation, “we had some Dutch engineers come down after Katrina. They had some interesting ideas about improving our flood defenses.”

Orson tensed beside me so I kept my voice casual. “The Delta Works inspired a lot of flood management systems worldwide. Though every situation is unique, of course. What works in the Netherlands might not be practical here.”

“True.” She stirred her gumbo thoughtfully. “But sometimes, outside perspective can be valuable. Help us see things differently.”

Something about the way she said it made me think she wasn’t talking about engineering. I glanced at Orson, who was studying his bowl with unusual intensity.

“Different perspectives are always valuable,” I agreed carefully. “Though local knowledge is crucial too. You can’t impose solutions without understanding the specific challenges and history of a place.”

Diana’s smile widened slightly. “Very diplomatic. Your royal training shows.”

I nearly dropped my spoon. “You know?”

“Of course I know.” She looked amused. “I’m a teacher. I know how to use Google, and when Orson mentioned you arranged for a private charter, I was curious about who you were. Not many people have access to that kind of wealth or privilege.”

“Mom,” Orson started, but she waved him off.

“Oh, relax. I’m not going to tell anyone. Though I have to say, you’re not quite what I expected from a prince.”

“Thank you, I think?”

“It is a compliment,” she assured me. “Now, who wants seconds?”