Page 3 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

ORSON

The cafeteria buzzed with the kind of chaotic energy that made my skin crawl.

This was my fifth year at VTC, but I still hadn’t gotten used to the constant noise, the throngs of bodies, the overwhelming smell of greasy food.

New Orleans could be crazy busy, but the vibe was different, somehow, and it didn’t get to me.

My laptop screen glowed with the problem set I’d been working on after finishing my dinner, but the numbers kept swimming before my eyes.

They were off, somehow. I’d done the equations, but something didn’t add up.

The final numbers were nowhere near what I would’ve expected them to be.

I’d already double-checked my calculations, but I had clearly missed something.

Something that could mean the difference between a structure that stood and one that failed.

In the real world, that could mean the difference between life and death.

Just like one wrong step on that roof during Katrina…

I pushed that thought away, but it clung like the humid New Orleans air had that day. It had been twenty years by now, but the people who had said the pain would get less over time had lied. I missed him as much as I had as a kid, though maybe in different ways.

Fuck, I needed to focus on this problem. Professor Gibbons wouldn’t be impressed if I didn’t ace this, and I wanted her recommendation for when I graduated to get into a top engineering firm. It wasn’t due for another two weeks, but still.

“You got this,” I muttered to myself, a habit Mom always teased me about.

But I needed to get this right. Civil engineering wasn’t about passing classes for me or about getting a degree.

It was about making sure no other four-year-old would have to watch their father disappear beneath rising waters.

Every equation I solved, every structure I designed, was another step toward that goal.

Dad had been an engineer too. Would he be proud of me now, hunched over differential equations while other students actually enjoyed their college experience?

Or would he want me to learn to live a little, like Mom kept suggesting?

I rubbed my tired eyes beneath my glasses.

It didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford distractions. Not when there was so much at stake.

I forced my attention back to the screen, but movement in my peripheral vision made me look up.

Floris towered over my table, a tray laden with food in his hands and an easy smile on his face.

After almost two weeks of living together, I’d noticed he wore that smile like armor: charming and practiced but rarely reaching his eyes.

Still, there was something magnetic about Floris, the way he carried himself with casual grace despite his imposing height, how his green eyes sparkled with good humor even when he complained about the “medieval” accommodations, the easy charm that rolled off him in waves and made you instantly like him .

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already pulling out a chair. “Every other table looks like a freshman mixer, and I’m too old to explain what a cassette tape is.”

I snorted. “It’s a free country.”

“So I keep hearing.” He set down his tray and studied its contents with the kind of dismay usually reserved for discovering the milk was spoiled. “I still can’t wrap my head around what passes for a balanced meal here. In Europe, this would be considered a cry for help.”

Looking at his tray, I couldn’t hold back my grin. He’d managed to collect what looked like one of everything: a slice of pizza, a burger, some fries, a scoop of pasta, and some sad-looking vegetables.

“Welcome to real college dining,” I said, enjoying his horror. “You learn to survive on what’s here, or your appetite gets creative fast.”

“Creative?” Floris poked at his burger with a fork like he expected it to stab him back. “In the Netherlands, we prefer vegetables that haven’t been waterboarded into submission. These look like they’ve confessed to crimes they didn’t commit.”

I laughed despite myself. His deadpan delivery combined with his slight Dutch accent made everything ten times funnier. “The salads are pretty decent here, but anything else can be sucked through a straw. What can I say, America is not known for its cuisine.”

“You know what else I’ve noticed?” Floris said, and I closed my laptop. My study plans could wait; his commentary was too entertaining to miss.

“What?”

“Your portion sizes. They’re massive. This burger is roughly the size of my head. Is this meant to feed me for the semester, or am I supposed to share it with the entire table? ”

“That’s nothing. Wait until you see Thanksgiving dinner. We basically eat until we hate ourselves, take a nap, then eat some more.”

Floris’s eyes widened. “You mean the turkey and the…” He waved his hand vaguely. “The orange stuff?”

“Sweet potato casserole. With marshmallow topping. And yeah, but that’s only part of it. My mom makes this cornbread dressing that’ll change your life.” The memory of Mom’s cooking made my chest ache a little. “Though nothing beats her gumbo.”

“Gumbo? That’s the famous soup from New Orleans, right?”

“Calling gumbo soup is like calling the Rhine a creek. It’s more like…

” I searched for words that would do justice to Mom’s gumbo.

“It’s history in a pot. Every family has their own recipe, passed down through generations.

Mom learned hers from my grandmother, who learned it from her mother.

The secret’s in the roux; if you don’t near-burn it, you’re not doing it right. ”

“Burn it?” Floris looked genuinely intrigued now, abandoning his assault on the burger. “On purpose?”

“Almost-burn it,” I corrected. “It needs to be dark brown, like chocolate. Takes forever, standing there stirring flour and oil until your arm feels like it’s gonna fall off. But that’s what gives gumbo its depth.”

“That sounds intriguing.”

“What are some classic Dutch dishes?”

Floris shifted in his seat. “The Netherlands aren’t known for haute cuisine either.

Most fancy restaurants back home serve French food since the majority of our classic dishes are basically farmer’s food.

Take stamppot , for example. It literally means mashed dish, and it’s mashed potatoes with vegetables mixed in, usually served with bacon bits, smoked sausage, and sometimes, gravy or butter. ”

“Mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables? Like what? ”

“Depends on the version. Carrots, sauerkraut, or even broccoli. My favorite is kale.” He grinned at my expression.

“I know, I know. Americans think kale is this fancy superfood, but in the Netherlands, it’s traditional winter food.

Poor people’s food, really. Though now it’s having this weird renaissance because suddenly, everyone has discovered it’s healthy. ”

I had trouble looking away, his enthusiasm infectious. The careful mask he usually wore had slipped, revealing something more genuine underneath. His eyes lit up when he talked about home, and his hands moved expressively as he described Dutch comfort food.

“Sounds pretty hearty,” I said, trying to imagine it. “We’ve got something similar in New Orleans: dirty rice. Though we add more spice.”

“I would kill for some spices. Everything here so far has been completely bland.” Floris took a brave bite of the vegetables. His expression cycled through several emotions before settling on resignation. “Well,” he said after swallowing, “let’s hope the vitamins haven’t been cooked to death.”

“That’s the spirit. Lower your standards enough and everything becomes edible.”

“You’re a terrible ambassador for American food culture, you know that?”

I shrugged. “Wait until you try Taco Bell at 2a.m. That’s when the real cultural education begins.”

His green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Depends on how desperate for food you get during finals week.”

I watched as he cut another precise bite of his burger, somehow managing to make even cafeteria food look elegant.

His movements were graceful and practiced, probably from years of state dinners and formal events.

Even here, surrounded by students wolfing down their food, he maintained perfect posture and proper table manners.

It was kind of fascinating, actually, how he could make even this look dignified.

Then again, I hadn’t seen one bad picture of him online yet.

And yes, I had looked some more, this time ignoring the obvious trashy websites that kept showing this video of him that I had a hard time reconciling with what I’d seen of him so far, and focusing on official pictures of him, in which he looked so damn handsome.

Not that I was looking . Sure, I’d accepted my own sexuality years ago and had no issues with being gay, but dating and relationships were distractions I couldn’t afford.

My goals were too important to risk getting sidetracked by attraction, no matter how gracefully the guy ate terrible cafeteria food.

“You’re staring,” he said with a wide grin. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he really smiled. Not that practiced, princely smile he usually wore, but something more genuine.

Heat crept up my neck. “Sorry. I was…” I scrambled for an explanation that wouldn’t sound weird. “…thinking about how different our food cultures are.”

“Nice save.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Though I bet we could find some common ground. Both our cultures have a thing for fried food, for instance. You should try bitterballen sometimes. They’re these crispy little balls filled with beef ragout.”

“Sounds better than whatever this is supposed to be.” I gestured at the mystery meat on my own tray. “Though I’m confident nothing beats New Orleans beignets.”

“Bet you my stroopwafels could give them a run for their money.”

“Your what now? ”