Page 19 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

ORSON

I woke up with that frenetic energy of a Christmas morning, and that despite having slept on our lumpy couch. A week of that and I wouldn’t be able to walk, but I’d bear it with a smile on my face if that was the price for having Floris here.

I’d missed him. Funny how that worked. I hadn’t expected to miss his constant chatter, his terrible jokes, even the chaos he brought to every space he occupied.

But I had. It had felt like someone had dimmed the lights, though come to think of it, that was probably because of all the stress around Mom and not so much Floris.

That seemed a far more likely explanation.

But the fact was that I had missed him. Now he was here for a whole week, and I couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t quite believe he’d chosen to spend his Thanksgiving break with us instead of choosing one of the undoubtedly far more exotic options he’d had.

He’d mentioned an invite to go scuba diving in the Caribbean, and yet he was here.

It had meant a lot to Mom too, I could tell.

He’d loved her gumbo, always a surefire way to get my mom’s approval, but she genuinely liked him.

She’d loved the gift basket he’d brought her, which had included a refrigerator magnet with cute little wooden shoes, a gorgeous colander with pictures of tulips, and oven mitts in that classic white-and-blue pattern the Netherlands were famous for. Delft Blue, Floris had called it.

We’d talked for a long time yesterday, all four of us, and he’d drawn even Tia into our conversations. She now stared at him with little hearts in her eyes, despite knowing he was gay.

I couldn’t blame them for liking him. What was not to like? He was the best friend I could’ve ever wished for, and I was stupidly excited to show him my city.

After a simple breakfast—I warned Floris to leave room for snacks—we headed out.

The French Quarter was alive with its usual mix of tourists and locals, music spilling from doorways and mingling with the sounds of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone streets.

I watched Floris take it all in, his eyes wide as he studied the wrought-iron balconies and colorful facades.

The morning sun caught his hair, turning it almost golden, and I forced myself to look away.

“This is incredible.” Floris craned his neck to study a particularly ornate balcony.

His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch the intricate ironwork, an urge I was well familiar with.

“It feels like I’m somewhere else entirely.

It’s hard to believe this exists in the same country as Worcester, that they’re both in the US. ”

“We certainly like to think we’re special,” I said with a grin. “And we have the language to prove it. Creole is nothing like you’ve ever heard.”

Floris turned to me, frowning. “I thought it was bastard French, for lack of a better word.”

I shook my head. “It’s a mix of French, African languages, Spanish, and Native American words that all came together in its own complete language system with unique grammar and pronunciation.

Like, in French you’d say je vais for ‘I go,’ but in Creole, it becomes mo té allé .

Mom’s family spoke it at home when she was growing up, and even though we don’t use it much in our house, you can still hear it all over certain neighborhoods, especially when the older folks get together. ”

“Oh wow, I never knew. But you understand it?”

I wiggled my hand. “Enough to get by if needed, but I’m not fluent in it.”

We continued our walk, making our way down Royal Street.

“How did all this survive Katrina?” Floris asked. “The French Quarter, I mean. The water must have been brutal on these old buildings.”

My chest tightened at the question. “This part of the city is actually on higher ground, so it didn’t flood.” I paused, swallowing past the sudden thickness in my throat. “The water went other places instead.”

Something in my tone must’ve alerted him because Floris turned to study my face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “I should learn to talk about it.”

He reached for my hand and held it for a moment. “Maybe, but when you’re ready. Not because I keep pushing you with questions.”

“It’s okay.”

He let go of my hand again, and I felt strangely bereft.

“So, where are these famous beignets you keep promising me?” he asked, and I appreciated his forced change of topic.

“Café du Monde is just ahead.” I led him toward the familiar green and white awning. “Fair warning: you’re going to get powdered sugar everywhere. It’s basically a requirement.”

“Food that requires wearing it? That doesn’t sound like you at all. ”

Leave it to Floris to get me out of my head.

The café was busy as always, but we managed to snag a table near the edge where we could watch the street life. Floris’s face when he took his first bite of a beignet was almost comical, his eyes widening as the hot, fluffy pastry practically melted in his mouth.

“Okay,” he said after swallowing, “I concede. These might actually be better than stroopwafels . Infinitely messier, but wow, they’re yummy.”

“I’ll take that as high praise.” I watched as he tried to eat the next one more carefully, failing to avoid the shower of powdered sugar. A white streak appeared on his nose. He looked so freaking adorable.

“You’ve got…” I gestured to my own nose.

He wiped at it, managing to spread more sugar across his face. “Better?”

“Worse, actually.” Without thinking, I reached across the table with a napkin, gently wiping the sugar away. His skin was warm under my touch, and our eyes met for a moment that felt charged with something I wasn’t ready to name.

I pulled back quickly, heat creeping up my neck. “There. Now you look less like you lost a fight with a powdered donut.”

“My hero.” His smile was soft, almost fond. “So, what else do I need to see while I’m here?”

The question brought back that familiar weight, the one that always came with thinking about my dad, about what had happened, about how I had failed him.

But this was Floris. He’d chartered a private plane to get me home when Mom was sick.

He’d become so much more than a roommate or friend.

He was someone I trusted, even if that trust terrified me sometimes.

“There’s something I want to show you,” I heard myself say. “But it’s not exactly a tourist spot. ”

He must’ve heard something in my voice because his expression turned serious. He reached across the table, his hand landing on mine for a moment. The touch was brief but grounding, giving me courage. “I’d love to see it… and listen to your story.”

He knew. It didn’t surprise me, and that, too, was a comfort. “Thank you.”

We walked in comfortable silence, leaving the bustle of the French Quarter behind.

The streets became more residential, houses showing varying stages of repair and renewal.

Some areas still bore the scars of Katrina, even after all these years—water lines visible on buildings, empty lots where homes once stood.

Floris seemed to sense I couldn’t talk and he continued to walk quietly beside me, taking it all in.

His hand brushed against mine from time to time, and I loved that casual reminder that I was not alone.

Finally, we reached the house. My old house. It looked different now. It was renovated, painted a different color, someone else’s home. But I could still see it as it was that day, water rising faster than anyone had predicted.

“This is where we lived,” I said quietly, “when Katrina hit.”

Floris moved closer, his shoulder brushing mine in silent support. He didn’t speak, just waited.

“What’s your first memory?” I asked him. “The first one you can remember?”

He smiled. “Sledding down a mountain in Austria with my uncle Friso, who is now king, and my cousins. I had just turned five. We were on a family trip there, and we were high up in the mountains, where there was snow even in the summer. My father didn’t like it one bit, as he’s afraid of heights, but my uncle lived for that shit.

We didn’t bring a sled, of course, but he found a thick trash bag and used that.

And off we went, me between his legs and him holding on tight to me as we whooshed down the mountain.

Best thing ever, which is why it must’ve burned itself into my memory.

” Then his smile faded. “But I’m gonna take a wild guess and say yours isn’t quite so positive. ”

I shook my head. “I was four. Old enough to remember, not old enough to understand. Tia was only a few months old, and she was sick with pneumonia.” The words came slow, each one heavy.

“She was a preemie, born at twenty-nine weeks with underdeveloped lungs, and she had bronchopulmonary dysplasia, a lung illness. That’s why my parents were so hesitant to evacuate.

Putting Tia in a shelter full of other kids would’ve put her at high risk.

And we thought we were safe here. The forecasts kept changing.

First, they said the storm would turn, then that the levees would hold.

By the time we realized how bad it was going to be, it was too late to evacuate. ”

I could feel Floris’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze on the house.

“The water rose so fast. Dad got us onto the roof. He carried Tia up first, then came back for me. Mom had managed to get up by herself and was holding Tia. But I was scared, trying to climb too quickly. I slipped.” I swallowed heavily, the scar on my shin aching.

“Cut myself pretty bad on the edge of the roof. Dad had to climb all the way back down to push me up.”

The memory was vivid: the howling wind, the rising water, my father’s strong hands lifting me. “He managed to push me up onto the roof, but then the current was too strong. He couldn’t hold on anymore. Mom tried to reach him, but…”

My voice cracked. Floris’s hand found mine, warm and steady, grounding me in the present.