Page 31 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

I sprawled across my too-small dorm bed, staring at the ceiling with what must have been the stupidest grin on my face.

My chest felt like it was filled with helium, my heart so light, I worried it might float right out of my body.

This feeling—this ridiculous, wonderful weightlessness—had to be what true happiness felt like.

And it all circled back to one curly-haired, nervous, brilliant person: Orson Ritchey.

It had been three-and-a-half months since I’d met Orson, two weeks since our first kiss, and approximately twelve hours since I’d realized I was falling in love with him.

In love. The phrase felt foreign in my mind, like trying on clothes in a style I’d never dared to wear before.

I’d had hookups with anything ranging from bad encounters to spectacular sex, but nothing that had ever made me feel like this.

Nothing that had made me want to build something real, something lasting.

Last night, we’d stayed up talking until three in the morning, Orson’s head resting on my chest, his wild curls tickling my chin.

He’d been explaining the technical details of how the Egyptians had structured the pyramids, his long fingers drawing invisible diagrams in the air.

I’d barely followed his explanation, but I’d been enraptured by the animation in his voice, the intelligence in his gorgeous, brown eyes, the way his whole body seemed to vibrate with the joy of explaining something he loved.

And then he’d stopped mid-sentence, looked up at me, and said, “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

“I’m listening to every word. I just don’t understand half of them.”

He’d laughed then, that unexpected laugh that transformed his sharp, serious face into something mischievous and young. “You don’t have to pretend to be interested in my obsessions.”

“I’m not pretending to be interested in you,” I’d said, and the words had slipped out before I could analyze them, measure them, weigh their impact the way I’d been taught to do with every utterance since childhood.

The memory made my stomach flip pleasantly.

I needed to talk to someone about this feeling, someone who would understand the complications that came with being me.

Someone I could trust not to breathe a word until I was ready to talk to anyone else about it.

I reached for my phone and pulled up my brother’s contact.

Laurens and I had always been close, partially because we were barely two years apart in age and mostly because we’d always had to have each other’s backs. Growing up in the public eye did things to you as a kid, and we’d always been able to count on each other.

Laurens picked up on the third ring. “Well, well. If it isn’t my little brother, the American college student. To what do I owe this honor?”

“Can’t I just call to say hello?” I asked, sitting up and leaning against the wall, knees pulled to my chest. “Maybe I missed your charming personality and judgmental sighs. ”

“You could, but you never do.” His voice was warm with affection despite the teasing. “And my sighs aren’t judgmental, they’re aristocratic. We practiced them extensively in prince school, remember?”

I snorted. “Ah yes, right between ‘Eating Soup Without Slurping’ and ‘How to Smile for Official Portraits.’ Those were the days.”

“Everything okay over there? Classes going well? No international incidents this time?”

I let out an indignant huff. “You’re making it sound like I cause incidents all the time.”

“Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far, but there have been some… misunderstandings.”

“Misunderstandings that were not my fault,” I protested, though I couldn’t help grinning. “And no, no incidents. Actually, everything’s kind of perfect.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Okay, now I’m intrigued. You sound different.”

“Different how?”

“Happy,” he said simply. “Not the ‘I’m pretending everything is fine for the press’ happy, but actually happy.”

I took a deep breath. “I met someone.”

“Ah.” Just that one syllable, but it carried volumes of understanding. “Tell me about him.”

My sexuality had never been an issue for my family, including Laurens. He hadn’t been surprised when I’d told him and ever since, he’d shown his wholehearted acceptance in every single way.

The knot of tension between my shoulders loosened.

“His name is Orson, and he’s brilliant. Literally brilliant, probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.

He’s studying civil engineering and he’s super passionate about restoring old buildings.

He’s from New Orleans originally, and his mom and sister are amazing, and—” I cut myself off, embarrassed by my own enthusiasm.

“He sounds wonderful,” Laurens said softly.

“He is. He’s super cute, and he has the most amazing eyes… and when he laughs, really laughs, it’s like… like…”

“Like watching the sun come out?”

“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair, smiling at how well my brother understood. “Exactly like that.”

“How did you meet?”

“He’s my roommate.”

Laurens chuckled. “Only you, bro. Only you. Well, at least that makes it easy to stay discreet.”

“He wants to keep it under wraps for now. He’s very new at this. Not in the closet, but inexperienced with relationships.”

“Relationships,” Laurens said slowly. “So this is not casual, then. It’s serious.”

“It feels serious,” I admitted. “More serious than anything I’ve felt before. I think… I think I’m in love with him, Laurens.”

The words hung in the air between us, across the ocean that separated Massachusetts from the Netherlands. My brother was silent for a moment, and I could picture him in his office, elbows leaning on the desk as he looked pensive.

“Well, that’s certainly new,” he finally said. “Does he know who you are?”

“Yes. He knows everything. Including the video.”

“Good, good. I’m glad. And he’s okay with it?”

“He seems to be.”

“That’s a big hurdle taken, then. So, what’s the problem? Why the call?”

I shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking under me. “I want to tell Mom and Dad. About him. About us. But I don’t know how they’ll react. He’s not exactly what they might’ve expected.”

“Because he’s American?”

“Because he’s a regular guy. No title, no family connections. A middle-class kid from New Orleans.”

Laurens laughed outright at that. “Floris, you do realize that Grandmother married a complete commoner who became everyone’s favorite prince consort, right? And that our cousin married the daughter of the gardener? You’re overthinking this.”

I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear those words until they were spoken. “You think they’ll be okay with it?”

“They’ll be thrilled you’ve found someone who makes you happy,” Laurens said firmly. “Especially after that mess with that video. They’ve been worried about you, you know.”

The mention of “that mess” sent a familiar twinge through me. The injustice still stung.

“I know they worry. That’s part of why I want to tell them properly, before they hear rumors.”

“Good plan. But speaking of rumors…” He paused, and my stomach tightened. “Floris, Margriet has been getting questions.”

Margriet was the royal family’s chief spokesperson, a formidable woman who managed our public image with iron efficiency.

“What kind of questions?”

“The usual. Where you are, what you’re doing, why you haven’t been seen at any functions lately. There’s some speculation that you’re in rehab or having some kind of breakdown.”

I closed my eyes. “Fantastic.”

“It’s nothing we can’t handle, but I wanted to warn you that they might start looking for you. You know how persistent they can be. ”

My stomach soured as the weightless feeling of earlier dissipated.

I knew exactly how persistent they could be.

As a child, it had been carefully planned moments for the press, with the agreement that they’d leave us kids alone otherwise.

For the most part, they had, but whenever we appeared for official events, they were allowed to take pictures too.

There were some lovely ones of me picking my nose at age three.

But once we turned eighteen, that agreement ended and the press had free reign. It was part of being fifth in line to the Dutch throne: not important enough to warrant full security detail at all times, but interesting enough to sell magazines.

“I don’t want that for Orson,” I said, and my voice came out raw. “He doesn’t deserve to have his life invaded like that.”

“No, he doesn’t, but if this relationship is as serious as it sounds, it’s something you’ll both have to face eventually.”

The thought made me physically ill. I pictured Orson, with his shy smile and his self-consciousness, being pursued by photographers. I imagined his private life splashed across tabloids, his past dissected, his family harassed. All because he’d had the misfortune to fall for me.

“I don’t know if I can do that to him,” I whispered.

“Floris.” Laurens’s voice was gentle but firm. “You can’t make that decision for him. You need to talk to him about it, be honest about what being with you might mean. Let him decide if it’s worth it.”

My free hand clenched into a fist. “And if he decides it’s not?”

“Then that’s his choice to make. But from what you’ve told me about him, he sounds like someone who knows his own mind.”

I thought about Orson’s determination, his focus, the way he meticulously worked through problems until he found a solution.

He wasn’t impulsive. If anything, he overthought everything, analyzed all possible outcomes before making a move.

It was one of the things I loved about him, how different it was from my own tendency to speak first and think later.

“You’re right. I need to talk to him.”

“And to Mom and Dad. Sooner rather than later. They’re planning to come visit you in the spring. It would be better if they weren’t blindsided.”

My parents had scheduled a “private” visit to the United States, with a few days set aside to see me at school. Private in royal terms meant only a dozen staff members and minimal press coverage.

“I’ll call them,” I promised. “And I’ll talk to Orson.”

“Good. And Floris? For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you. It’s about time something good happened in your life.”

His words sent a rush of warmth through me, mingled with a twinge of apprehension. “Thanks, Laurens. I appreciate it.”

After we hung up, I sat motionless on my bed, phone clutched in my hand.

The happiness I’d felt earlier hadn’t vanished entirely, but it was now shot through with anxiety, like cracks in a beautiful vase.

I had to warn Orson about what might be coming.

I had to give him the chance to walk away before things got complicated.

The thought made my chest ache with a pain that felt physical. My hands weren’t exactly numb, but I felt a warmth, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as fear, fear of losing something precious before it had fully begun.

But before I could analyze that any further, my phone rang again. When I spotted the number, I frowned. Tore? Why would he be calling me?

“Tore? Is everything all right?” I asked, unable to keep the concern out of my voice .

“I’ve royally mucked things up, Flo,” he blurted out. “I need your advice.”

I pushed my own worries to the background. “I’m listening. What’s going on?”

The call didn’t take long and I saw the irony in the fact that I was telling him the exact same thing that Laurens had advised me: to communicate.

In my case, with both my parents and Orson, and in Tore’s case, with the guy he’d insisted for so long he hated.

Had I called it or what when I’d labeled it foreplay?

At least I wasn’t the only one with relationship trouble… though that was barely a consolation. I needed to talk to Orson about the press, and I needed to do it soon.

But how would he react? I had a feeling I wasn’t gonna like it.