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

FLORIS

The things I did to prove a point.

I’d expected Massachusetts to be pleasant in the summer, like those idyllic New England postcards with their perfect, white churches and autumn leaves. The reality? Satan himself would’ve needed a cold shower.

Vernon Technical College looked as impressive in real life as it had in that fancy brochure they’d sent me, offering a fascinating mix of gothic-style buildings and modern, glass structures sprawled across gently rolling hills.

My dormitory, Smelter Hall, stood like a proud sentinel among them, all Gothic arches and weathered stone that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the older universities back home, like Leiden.

But the stately appearance had been deceiving. The ancient building clearly predated air conditioning and possibly the invention of comfort itself. Maybe back in 1910, they didn’t believe one should be able to breathe in order to learn?

What a difference from the classic Dutch summer I’d left behind back home: windy, wet, and with a temperature hovering around eighteen degrees Celsius, woefully chilly for mid-August. A happy medium between the two would’ve been great.

Which reminded me, I needed to figure out how to measure temperature in Fahrenheit.

There was a formula that I had learned in physics back in high school, but that felt like ages ago.

Eighteen degrees was… somewhere in the mid-sixties, maybe?

Sweat trickled down my spine as I hauled my two overstuffed suitcases—because apparently, I couldn’t pack light to save my life—up yet another flight of stairs.

The stairwell felt like a sauna designed by someone who’d never experienced joy.

Through the tall, multi-paned windows, I caught glimpses of the pristine campus green, where other students lounged in the shade of century-old oaks, looking far more comfortable than I felt right now.

My polo shirt, which had started the day as a perfectly respectable piece of clothing, now clung to my back like a clingy ex who couldn’t take a hint.

When I stopped for a quick breather, the wrought-iron railing beneath my palm was hot enough to fry an egg, making me wonder if perhaps I should’ve listened to my father’s advice about hiring movers.

But no, I’d wanted the full college experience, hadn’t I?

Besides, I wasn’t moving in with furniture or other big things.

Just two suitcases and one oversized backpack.

I was seriously starting to regret my royal declaration of “I’ll do everything myself, like any other student!

” That had seemed noble and democratic when I’d announced it back home in the Netherlands.

Before I’d discovered my room was on the third floor.

Before I realized this architectural masterpiece had been designed by someone who thought elevators were for the weak.

Before my harsh confrontation with the hell-like temperatures here.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered as I nearly dropped a suitcase on my foot. At this point, death by luggage was starting to look like an attractive alternative to climbing one more step.

Fuck me sideways with a windmill. At least back home, everything was flat.

I staggered up the last few steps to the third floor, my legs burning in protest. Note to self: three flights of stairs while lugging two seriously overweight suitcases? Not my brightest moment. They had spinner wheels, I had told myself. Fat lotta good that did me when I had to carry them.

The long corridor stretched before me like something out of The Shining , identical wooden doors marching along both sides. Room 314 waited halfway down, my home for the next year. Only a few more steps.

I took a deep breath, shifted my backpack, and knocked before using my key.

The door swung open to reveal my new kingdom—all twenty square meters of it—and my roommate, who was already there.

Orson Ritchey from New Orleans, according to the housing info.

Twenty-four years old and in the first year of his master’s degree in civil engineering.

The Dean had placed me with an older student on purpose, he’d mentioned, perhaps worried the undergraduates would have a bad influence on me?

Maybe he’d read some stories about me, the so-called Party Prince.

Orson stood at the window, tall and lean, with a riot of wild, brown curls that caught the sunlight streaming in.

When he turned, his sharp features and intelligent, brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses stood out.

He assessed me with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for complicated mathematical equations.

I fought the urge to check if my shirt was on backwards or if I’d grown a second head.

Maybe he was judging me for being such a sweaty disaster?

“Hi,” I said, dropping my suitcases and plastering on my most winning smile. The same smile that had charmed countless dignitaries and gotten me out of trouble more times than I could count. “I’m Floris. Your new roommate.”

He crossed the room in three steps. “Orson.”

His handshake was firm and precise, like everything else about him seemed to be. Major points for that. I’d suffered through enough limp handshakes at royal functions to last several lifetimes. Those always felt like holding a particularly unenthusiastic wet fish.

He gestured to the empty bed on the right side of the room. “That’s yours.”

I dragged my suitcases over, grateful to finally set them down.

The room was smaller than I’d expected, with two narrow beds, two desks, and built-in closets.

Orson’s side was already meticulously organized: books arranged by size on his desk, his pencils and pens neatly lined up, and a small fan positioned perfectly in the window.

I winced. If he expected the same kind of neatness from me, he was in for a nasty shock.

But right now, I had other news to share with him that was more pressing.

While I had zero desire to announce my real identity to the whole campus, I did want to come clean to my roommate.

He was bound to find out anyway when living with me, and I’d rather have him hear it from me.

“Listen,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead, “I should probably tell you something before we get settled in. The info you got about me said I was an exchange student from the Netherlands, but I’m actually?—”

“A prince.” He crossed his arms. “I got a call from the Dean’s office yesterday, telling me that your last name wasn’t van Orange but?—”

“Van Oranje Nassau,” I said softly, figuring he was stumbling over the pronunciation. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they would call you before I had a chance to explain myself.”

“I was wondering why they’d placed me with an undergraduate, but it made sense when I found out about your identity.”

“Yeah, I figured they were hoping a graduate student would have a positive influence on me?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you need one? A positive influence, I mean?”

I firmly shook my head. “Nope, I’m good.”

“But if you’re a prince, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Getting an education, like you. I’m in my third year of university back in the Netherlands, and I’m doing this year at Vernon as part of an exchange program to finish my bachelor’s degree in civil engineering.”

“Because you need that for what, exactly?”

I sighed. “I’m fifth in line for the throne, Orson. I will never be king, and trust me, I’m delighted about that. But I am expected to do something with my life, to contribute to society in some meaningful way, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“I googled you.”

I winced. Nothing good could come from seeing what the press wrote about me. Ask me how I knew. “Most of it are lies.”

“I sure hope so because otherwise, we’re gonna have a problem.”

I held up my hands placatingly. “No problems, I swear. I want to study and fly under the radar. Other than you and the Dean, no one knows my real identity. All my papers say Floris van Oranje.”

He studied me for a few beats more, then slowly nodded. “As long as you don’t expect special treatment. I’m here to study, not babysit royalty.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing I want,” I assured him, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. “I’m here to study and experience a somewhat normal college life. No royal fanfare, no special treatment. Hell, I’d prefer if you forgot about the whole prince thing entirely.”

Orson’s posture relaxed slightly, though his analytical gaze remained. “That’s… surprisingly reasonable.”

“Well, I do expect you to bow every time I enter the room…” I grinned, unable to resist teasing him a little.

When his eyes widened in alarm, I quickly added, “I’m kidding.

Seriously, I hate all that formal stuff.

We have a saying in Dutch, which translated, goes, ‘Just act normal and you’ll be crazy enough.

’ The Dutch don’t tolerate people who think they’re above everyone else.

Even our Prime Minister rides his bike to work. ”

Orson blinked. “That’s interesting.”

“Anyway, all this to say that I don’t want any special treatment.”

“Good, because I don’t have time for that.” I caught the ghost of a smile. “And don’t expect me to be your tour guide. Or your party buddy. I have a strict study schedule, and I plan to stick to it.”

“Duly noted.” Of course, that was like offering a red rag to a bull because now I wanted to crack that disciplined exterior.

There was something intriguing about my serious roommate, something that made me want to see what lay beneath all that careful control.

Plus, he was seriously cute in an adorkable way.

His gaze flickered over my face, then to my suitcases. “You carried those up yourself?” There was a note of surprise in his voice, though his expression remained neutral.

“Yeah, I wanted the full college experience.” I wheezed out a laugh, still trying to catch my breath. “Though I’m seriously regretting that decision now. I didn’t expect the stairs to be quite so… ”

“Brutal?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Welcome to Smelter Hall, where every day is leg day.”

“At least I won’t need a gym membership.” I collapsed onto my bare mattress. The springs creaked in protest, and I winced. “Please tell me the beds aren’t always this loud.”

The noise was concerning for more reasons than one. Hooking up would be a nightmare with these squeaky springs announcing every movement to the entire floor. Not that scoring a hookup was my first priority, but still. At some point, I would like to get some.

“They are.” Orson returned to organizing his space, his movements precise and methodical as he arranged textbooks on his desk. “I brought a memory foam topper. It helps with both the noise and the medieval torture device they call a mattress.”

I’d definitely have to order one of those. “Does Amazon deliver here?”

“Sure. Just don’t order one in the next few days. They won’t be able to get here during move-in week.” He paused, those intelligent, brown eyes studying me again. “You may want to get a fan, too. The heat index is supposed to hit a hundred degrees tomorrow.”

A hundred degrees? What was that in Celsius? Oh, wait, wasn’t one hundred body temperature? So that would mean around thirty-seven Celsius.

“Sweet baby Jesus.” I sat up, eyeing his fan with naked envy. “And here I thought the Netherlands was bad during our one week of summer.”

That earned me another almost-smile, gone so quickly, I might have imagined it. “You really aren’t what I expected.”

“Let me guess, you pictured some spoiled brat who’d show up with an entourage and demand a red carpet?” When he didn’t deny it, I laughed. “Sorry to disappoint. Though I do have excellent taste in clothes, if that helps maintain the image.”

“I’ll try to contain my excitement.”

Dry as the Sahara, that one. But there was something oddly charming about his deadpan delivery.

I stood, grimacing at my sweat-soaked shirt. “I think I may grab a quick shower. I promise I’m usually more presentable, but these stairs have thoroughly humbled me.”

“Bathroom’s down the hall to the right.” He gestured vaguely without looking up from his precise arrangement of notebooks. “Though fair warning, the water pressure’s questionable at best.”

“Builds character, right? That seems to be a theme here. Between the stairs, the mattress, and now questionable water pressure, my character should be stellar by the end of the year.”

“At least you have a sense of humor about it.” Orson’s tone was dry, but there was something almost approving in it. He’d moved on to making his bed with a military precision any drill sergeant would be proud of.

I threw one of my suitcases on the bed and opened it. After some rummaging, I found my toiletries bag and a change of clothes. Thank fuck I had brought some mini bottles of shampoo and shower gel to tide me over until I could stop by a supermarket.

“Life’s too short not to laugh at yourself occasionally.” I headed for the door, then paused. “Hey, quick question. Any good places to grab coffee around here? I’m going to need industrial quantities to survive unpacking.”

“The campus coffee shop’s decent. It’s in the student center.” He adjusted his glasses, considering. “But if you want the good stuff, there’s this place called Acoustic Java about ten minutes away. They roast their own beans. ”

“A man who knows his coffee. I knew we’d find common ground.” I flashed him another grin before heading out.

As I walked down the hall, a smile played on my lips. I was stupidly excited about this year, even with the medieval mattress and Satan’s sauna masquerading as a dorm.

At my request, the Dutch press had not been informed I would be studying abroad, which meant I could live in relative anonymity here. Granted, Dutch reporters were nowhere near as bad as the British tabloid press, but they could still be a nuisance, especially when one wanted privacy.

College was supposed to be about discovering yourself, about experimenting, about making mistakes and learning from them. But when your mistakes were shared with the whole world, little mishaps could become sensational headlines in a heartbeat. I’d been there and done that once. Never again.

No, I would treasure every moment of peace and quiet until, inevitably, the press would find out where I was. But hopefully, that would take them a while since my father had agreed he would not voluntarily tell anyone where I was.

In the meantime, I would embrace life as an American college student, including having a roommate. Orson fascinated me—in an uptight, absolutely-needs-to-loosen-up kind of way.

Challenge accepted.