Page 21 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

Orson’s bed was only marginally more comfortable than my creaky mattress in our dorm room, but it smelled like him, so I had still slept like a baby. Hell, I’d even slept in somewhat, not waking up till nine.

Thanksgiving preparations were already underway downstairs.

I could hear Diana humming as she worked in the kitchen, the occasional clatter of pots and pans punctuating her melody.

The sounds and smells wafting up were enough to make my stomach growl loud enough to qualify as its own musical accompaniment.

I’d offered to help the day before, but she’d shooed me away with a fond, “You’re our guest, honey.

” Though I suspected it had more to do with protecting her kitchen from my questionable culinary skills than actual hospitality.

Orson had probably warned her about the microwave incident and my general proneness to clumsiness.

In my defense, how was I supposed to know that aluminum foil and microwaves were mortal enemies?

That wasn’t covered in my royal education, though maybe it should have been, right between “proper tea-sipping etiquette” and “how to wave without looking like you’re swatting flies. ”

Now I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging from my mouth as I tried to tame my increasingly wild curls.

The New Orleans humidity was doing things to my hair that defied both gravity and common sense.

At this rate, I’d need a royal decree to get it to lay flat.

Maybe I could claim diplomatic immunity from bad hair days?

Was that a thing? Note to self: consult with the Dutch ambassador about adding that to international treaties.

Not that it seemed to matter to Orson. Granted, his hair was even wilder than mine, but it only added to his charm.

My mind drifted back to the previous day, to Orson standing in front of his old house, to the raw vulnerability in his voice as he shared his story.

The weight he’d been carrying all these years, that desperate need to prove himself worthy of his father’s sacrifice, explained so much about him.

His obsessive studying, his reluctance to take risks or allow himself any joy beyond academic achievement, his fanatical attention to detail.

My chest ached for how young he’d been, only four years old, watching his father disappear beneath the rising waters.

No wonder he triple-checked everything, planned for every contingency, always wanted to be in control.

He’d learned too early how quickly life could change, how one moment could alter everything.

And yet despite that trauma, or maybe because of it, he’d grown into someone incredible.

He was brilliant and caring and so much stronger than he knew.

The way his eyes had lit up when we’d toured that historical house museum afterwards, his whole face transformed as he explained the architectural details…

That was the real Orson, the one he kept buried beneath duty and guilt .

I wanted to see more of that Orson. I wanted to be the one who helped him rediscover joy, who showed him he deserved happiness beyond honoring his father’s memory.

The urge to kiss him had been almost overwhelming when he’d gotten excited about those original Spanish colonial features, his hands gesturing animatedly as he explained their historical significance.

But would telling him how I felt add more pressure? The last thing I wanted was to become another complication in his carefully ordered life. We had built a beautiful friendship, one that meant so much to me. Was I willing to risk all that?

Plus, there was the whole prince thing to consider. Any relationship with me would eventually mean public scrutiny, and Orson had been through enough trauma without adding tabloid headlines to the mix.

Still, the way he’d looked at me sometimes yesterday, those lingering glances when he thought I wasn’t paying attention… I wasn’t imagining the spark between us. He felt it too, even if he hadn’t said anything. Maybe…

No. For now, being his friend was enough. Had to be enough. He needed someone in his corner who expected nothing from him except being himself. I could be…

The bathroom door opened suddenly, and there was Orson, wearing nothing but boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination.

He froze when he saw me, those intelligent, brown eyes widening behind his glasses.

His lean, toned body caught me off guard.

I’d seen him like this before, of course.

Hard not to when we were roommates. But somehow, his beauty had never hit me as hard as it did now.

His chest was smooth and pale, with a light dusting of freckles across his shoulders that made my fingers itch to trace them.

The morning light filtering through the small bathroom window caught his wild curls, turning them almost copper, even more chaotic than usual from sleep.

A thin scar on his right shin caught my eye, a reminder of the story he’d told me about climbing onto that roof during Katrina.

Heat rushed to my face as I realized I was equally underdressed, standing there in my boxer briefs.

His gaze flickered over me briefly before snapping back to my face, a blush creeping up his neck.

Those slim, elegant hands of his gripped the doorframe like he needed the support, and I couldn’t blame him.

The air between us felt suddenly thick with possibility.

“Sorry!” He started to back out, but his foot caught on the bath mat. I reached out instinctively to steady him, my hand landing on his bare shoulder. The contact sent electricity through my fingertips.

Time seemed to slow. We were standing too close, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, count the freckles scattered across his nose. His skin was warm under my palm, and I couldn’t make myself let go.

“Hi,” I managed, my voice embarrassingly rough.

“Hi.” His eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second, then snapped back up. “I should?—”

I kissed him.

Later, I wouldn’t be able to say exactly what made me do it. Maybe it was the way the morning light caught his eyes, or how vulnerable he looked with his sleep-mussed hair and bare skin. Maybe it was that I’d wanted to for so long that I couldn’t hold back anymore.

The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant, giving him every chance to pull away. But then Orson made this soft sound in the back of his throat and kissed me back, and my world narrowed to the feel of his lips against mine, the warmth of his skin under my hands .

His fingers tangled in my hair as he deepened the kiss, and everything else fell away: my carefully constructed reasons why this was a bad idea, my fears about complicating our friendship, my worries whether he felt the same way, all of it gone in the rush of finally, finally knowing how he tasted.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. Orson jerked back like he’d been burned, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “I… I can’t…”

Before I could say anything, he was gone, practically running back to his room. The door closed with a soft click that somehow hurt more than if he’d slammed it.

I stood there, my heart pounding, lips still tingling from the kiss. What had I done? I’d promised myself I wouldn’t push, wouldn’t risk our friendship, and now…

“Floris?” Diana’s voice floated up from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready if you want some!”

“Coming!” I called back, grateful my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

I quickly threw on some clothes, trying to calm my racing thoughts. When I heard Orson’s door open and his footsteps on the stairs, I waited a few minutes before following. I needed time to compose myself, to put on that mask of casual charm I’d perfected over years of public appearances.

But god, the memory of his lips against mine, the way he’d kissed me back before panic set in…

No. I couldn’t think about that now. Not when I had to face him and his family over breakfast, pretending everything was normal.

As if things would ever be normal again.

When I finally made it downstairs, the kitchen was alive with Thanksgiving preparations.

Diana stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled amazing while giving instructions to Tia, who was chopping vegetables with impressive precision.

Orson sat at the table, fully dressed now in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, determinedly not looking at me.

“There you are!” Diana turned from the stove, wielding a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Help yourself to coffee and toast. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

I managed what I hoped was a normal smile, avoiding Orson’s general direction as I poured myself coffee. The mug trembled slightly in my hand, and I gripped it tighter. I gave myself a firm talking to. Get it together. You’re literally trained for awkward social situations.

“ What can I do to help?” I asked as I munched on the toast, desperate for something to occupy myself with besides replaying that kiss in my head.

“Actually,” Diana said, “I need someone to run to the store. I forgot to buy cranberry sauce, and apparently, my homemade one won’t do.” She shot a fond look at Tia, who was making a face. “Would you mind? You boys can go together.”

My heart stuttered. Orson’s head snapped up, panic flashing across his face before he carefully schooled his expression.

“I can go alone,” I offered quickly. “Just give me directions?—”

“Nonsense.” Diana waved the spoon dismissively. “The stores will be crazy today. You’ll need someone who knows the way to survive.”

I caught Orson’s eye accidentally, and for a moment, I saw my own panic reflected there. But he just nodded stiffly and stood. “Let me grab my keys.”