Page 22 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

The drive to the store was possibly the most awkward seven minutes of my life, and that included the time where I had to explain to the King of England why his favorite horse was wearing my underwear on its head. In my defense, I had been nine and Greg had totally dared me .

Orson gripped the steering wheel like he expected it to make a break for freedom, his knuckles white. I stared out the window, trying to ignore how the confined space of the car made it impossible not to be aware of his presence, of the lingering taste of him on my lips.

The streets were busy as expected, other last-minute shoppers presumably on similar missions. Each stop light felt like an eternity, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing moment.

“Orson—” I started, at the same time as he said, “Listen?—”

We both stopped. I gestured for him to continue, but he shook his head, jaw tight.

“About what happened…” I tried again.

“Don’t.” His voice was strained. “Please. I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Can’t talk about it? Can’t acknowledge that you kissed me back?”

He flinched like I’d struck him. “It was a mistake.”

That hurt more than it should have. “Was it? Because from where I was standing, which was very close to you in the bathroom, it didn’t feel like a mistake.”

“Floris.” My name sounded like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside him. “I can’t do this. I can’t deal with another complication, another distraction.”

“Is that what you think I would be?” I turned to look at him properly, taking in his tense profile, the way his hands gripped the wheel. “A distraction?”

“Isn’t that what relationships are? Messy, complicated, unpredictable?” He pulled into the store parking lot but made no move to get out. “I have goals, responsibilities. I can’t afford to?—”

“To what? Feel something? Live a little?” I ran a hand through my hair in frustration. “God, Orson, you’re allowed to want things for yourself.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Don’t I?” I shifted in my seat to face him fully. “You think I don’t know about responsibility? About the weight of expectations? I’m literally a prince, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Orson’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “That’s different.”

“How? Because my obligations come from a crown instead of guilt?” The words came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn’t stop now. “You’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to feel the weight of someone else’s expectations.”

“My father died saving me.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I can’t?—”

“Can’t what? Be happy? Live your life?” I softened my tone. “Do you really think that’s what he would’ve wanted?”

“You don’t know what he would’ve wanted.” But there was uncertainty in his voice now. “You didn’t know him.”

“No, but I know you.” I reached for his hand before I could stop myself. He tensed but didn’t pull away. “And I know that pushing away everything that might make you happy isn’t honoring his sacrifice. It’s punishing yourself for surviving.”

His breath hitched. “Floris…”

“Tell me you didn’t feel something in that bathroom.” I squeezed his hand gently. “Tell me you haven’t felt this thing between us growing for months. Tell me I’m imagining it all, and I’ll back off. We can pretend it never happened.”

For a long moment, he was silent. Then, so quietly I almost missed it, “I can’t tell you that.”

My heart leapt. “Then what are you afraid of?”

“Everything.” He finally turned to look at me, his brown eyes vulnerable behind his glasses. “What if it doesn’t work out? What if I mess it up? What if?—”

“What if it does work?” I interrupted gently. “What if it’s amazing? What if allowing yourself to feel something, to want something for yourself, actually makes you stronger?”

“I don’t know how.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to want things for myself anymore.”

“Then let me help you figure it out.” I brought our joined hands to my lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “We can take it slow. No pressure, no expectations. Just… us.”

Orson’s breath caught at the gesture, and I saw something shift in his expression, like a wall crumbling, just a little. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He pulled his hand away, but gently. “You’re a prince, Floris. Eventually, you’ll have to go back to that life. To responsibilities and public scrutiny and… I can’t be part of that world. I’m not…”

“Not what?”

“Not good enough.” The words came out in a rush. “Not polished enough, not sophisticated enough, not?—”

“Stop.” I cut him off, my chest aching at the self-doubt in his voice.

“First of all, you’re brilliant and kind and absolutely good enough for anyone.

Second, do you really think I care about any of that?

I like you because you’re you. Because you call me out on my bullshit and help me with calculus and make me want to be better, not for the crown or the press, but for myself. ”

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw a glimmer of hope beneath the fear in his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted quietly. “Our friendship… it means too much to risk.”

“Who says we have to lose anything?” I shifted closer, heart hammering. “Maybe we could gain something instead. Something amazing.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “You sound very sure about that.”

“I am.” I reached for his hand again, relief flooding through me when he let me take it. “Because I know how I feel when I’m with you. How everything is brighter, better. How you make me want to be more than a prince, more than what everyone expects me to be.”

His thumb traced circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. “I… I feel that too,” he whispered. “But it scares me.”

“Good things often do.” I squeezed his hand. “But maybe they’re worth being scared for.”

Orson looked at our joined hands, his expression thoughtful. “What if we take it slow? Figure this out one step at a time?”

My heart soared. “We can go as slow as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He met my eyes then, and the vulnerability there made my breath catch. “Promise?”

“Promise.” I brought our joined hands to my lips again, pressing another soft kiss to his knuckles. “Though we should probably get that cranberry sauce before your mom sends out a search party.”

That startled a laugh out of him, breaking the tension. “God, I almost forgot. She’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.”

“We could tell her we got lost in each other’s eyes,” I suggested with an exaggerated waggle of my eyebrows.

“You’re ridiculous.” But he was smiling now, that rare, genuine smile that transformed his whole face. “Come on, let’s go brave the Thanksgiving crowds.”

Inside the store was chaos, last-minute shoppers frantically grabbing forgotten items. We managed to find the cranberry sauce after some searching, though Orson had to reach over an elderly lady who was debating between two different brands.

“I can’t believe Americans eat this,” I said, studying the can. “It looks like jelly.”

“That’s because it is jelly.” Orson’s shoulder brushed mine as we waited in the checkout line. “Wait until you see it come out of the can. It keeps the shape and everything.”

“That’s horrifying.” But I was grinning, loving how the awkwardness between us had melted into something softer, full of possibility.

When we got back to the car, Orson hesitated before starting the engine. “Floris?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.” He turned to look at me, his eyes serious behind his glasses. “For being patient with me. For understanding.”

“Always.” I reached over to brush a curl from his forehead, my heart skipping when he leaned into the touch. “Though I should warn you, my patience has limits. Especially when you look this adorable.”

His cheeks flushed pink. “It’ll build character, just like the stairs, the showers, and the lack of AC in our dorm.”

I was still grinning by the time we got back.