Page 34 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

Our traditional Christmas brunch at home had always been one of the highlights of the year for me, but this time, I struggled to get into the Christmas spirit.

It wasn’t for a lack of effort. The kitchen staff had outdone themselves, and the table was decked out with festive decorations like holly and pine garlands, twinkling lights, and red and green table settings.

The food was beautifully arranged on platters and dishes, showcasing the various kinds of freshly baked bread, pancakes, smoked salmon, different kinds of deli meats, cheese, fresh fruit, and of course, a kerststol , the traditional Christmas bread with almond paste in the center.

It even smelled amazing. The delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the scents of freshly baked croissants and the unique smell of fresh pine trees.

We always got real Christmas trees, dug out with roots intact and replanted two days after Christmas.

Better for the environment, my mom insisted, plus so much nicer than fake trees. She had a point.

But I wasn’t in a festive mood. I usually loved hanging out with my parents and my brother and his fiancée, Maaike.

They were engaged for six months now and had dated for two years before taking this step.

Somehow, they had managed to keep their relationship private for the first few months.

I liked her. She was sweet and funny, but she also knew when to put her foot down, which my brother needed from time to time.

So yes, I genuinely liked spending time with my family. We didn’t get to do that nearly often enough, so when we had a whole day to ourselves without any public obligations, it was a luxury. But my thoughts kept drifting to Orson.

I missed him. I missed his wild curls in the morning and how he always had bed head no matter how much he tried to tame it.

I missed his quiet intensity when he studied, the way his brow would furrow in concentration and how he’d absently push his glasses up his nose.

Most of all, I missed those rare moments when he’d let his guard down completely: his unexpected laugh that transformed his whole face, the way his eyes lit up when talking about historical architecture, how he’d unconsciously lean into me when we watched movies together.

Even the little things felt like missing puzzle pieces in my day.

The way he’d wordlessly hand me coffee in the morning, somehow always knowing exactly when I needed it.

His exasperated sighs when I left my laundry in the dryer too long, though he’d still bring it up to our room.

The soft, private smile he saved just for me when he thought no one else was looking.

Three weeks apart felt like an eternity, and it had only been a few days.

Somehow every hour without him stretched endlessly.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Mom said, passing me the bread basket. “Everything okay?”

I forced a smile, taking a slice of the Christmas bread without really seeing it. “Just tired, Mama.”

“Tired?” Laurens arched an eyebrow from across the table. “ You? On Christmas morning? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

Maaike elbowed him gently. “Leave him alone. He’s probably missing his friends from college.”

If only she knew. I caught Laurens’s knowing look and quickly focused on buttering my bread.

“How’s Tore doing?” Dad asked. “Have you talked to him?”

I nodded. “We spoke briefly yesterday. He’s still trying to come to terms with it all.”

His uncle, King Ragnar of Norway, had died unexpectedly after a massive heart attack in public.

Uncle Friso and Aunt Annette had flown in for the solemn and somber funeral and I had changed my flight home into one to Norway.

I’d barely seen Tore, but I’d been there, and that mattered.

Greg and Nils had shown up too, and we’d stayed together.

“He was so young,” Mom said. She shot my father a look. “You’d better take good care of yourself, Marc. You’re almost the same age.”

I could see the protest on my father’s lips, but it died just as quickly, probably because he realized how deeply worried she was. “You know I will, lieve schat. ”

The conversation continued, but my thoughts drifted again.

Was Orson awake yet? Probably not, considering the time difference.

What was Christmas morning like at his house?

I imagined him still sleepy-eyed, wild curls even messier than usual, maybe wearing that soft, green sweater that brought out the gold flecks in his eyes…

“Floris?” Dad’s voice pulled me back to reality. “Your mother asked you a question.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked how your finals went,” Mom repeated patiently. There was something in her expression, a maternal intuition that made me wonder if she could read more into my distraction than I wanted her to.

“Oh. Good. Really good, actually.” Thanks largely to Orson’s patient tutoring and ability to explain complex concepts in ways that actually made sense. “The civil engineering program at Vernon Tech is excellent.”

“And life in America? How are you liking that?” Maaike asked.

“Different.” I forced myself to pay attention. “Did you know they start classes at eight in the morning? I thought their constitution forbade cruel and unusual punishment.”

Dad chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“Barely. And don’t get me started on their food portions.

Everything comes supersized. The other day, I ordered a ‘small’ coffee and got what we’d consider a bucket.

Though I have to admit, I’m developing a concerning addiction to something called ‘mac and cheese.’ It’s basically pasta drowning in cheese sauce. ”

Mom wrinkled her nose. “That sounds… unhealthy.”

“Oh, it absolutely is. But it’s like a warm hug for your stomach. Plus, they have this thing called ‘dining dollars’ which basically means I can eat my feelings without actually seeing money leave my wallet. Dangerous system, really.”

“And the classes?” Dad asked, as always more interested in academics. He was an engineer himself, so I definitely took after him in that aspect.

“Challenging but good. Half my class struggles with converting to the metric system, but that’s one challenge I don’t have. On the other hand, I still can’t figure liquid ounces out. Every time I order a drink and they ask which size, I have to guess.”

The conversation flowed easily, my family’s genuine interest in my experiences making it simple to share.

It felt good to talk about the little cultural differences that still caught me off guard, like how Americans thought nothing of striking up conversations with complete strangers, or how they seemed physically incapable of pronouncing my name correctly. The rolling r was too much, apparently.

“Have you made any friends?” my mom asked.

My heart skipped at the opening she’d inadvertently provided. This was my chance. I’d promised Laurens I’d tell them about Orson, and really, there wouldn’t be a better moment. We were all together, relaxed, no pressing engagements or staff hovering nearby.

I took a deep breath. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you all.” I glanced at Laurens, who gave me an encouraging nod. “I’ve met someone.”

The silence that followed felt heavy with anticipation.

Mom’s face lit up immediately. “Oh? Tell us about him.”

“His name is Orson,” I said, watching carefully for their reactions. “He’s my roommate, actually. He’s studying civil engineering too, and he’s brilliant. Probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“A roommate?” Dad’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s convenient.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Trust me, it wasn’t planned. But he’s amazing. He’s from New Orleans originally, and he’s incredibly focused and dedicated to his studies. He wants to work in disaster prevention, specifically flooding. You’d love talking to him, Dad.”

“And how serious is this?” Mom asked, her voice gentle but probing.

I met her eyes, knowing honesty was crucial here. “I’m in love with him. ”

Dad’s coffee cup clinked against its saucer. “Aren’t you a bit young to be throwing around words like love?”

“Marc,” Mom chided softly, but I shook my head.

“No, it’s okay.” I straightened in my chair, channeling every lesson in poise I’d ever learned. “I know I’m young, and I know my track record with relationships isn’t exactly stellar. But this is different. Orson is different.”

“Different how?” Dad pressed.

“He sees me,” I said simply. “Not the prince, not the tabloid target, but the real me. He challenges me to be better, helps me with my studies, calls me out when I’m being ridiculous. And he’s so brilliant and passionate about what he does, even though he tries to hide it.”

“Hide it?” Mom’s brow furrowed.

I hesitated, not sure how much of Orson’s story was mine to tell. “He lost his father during Hurricane Katrina. He was only four. It changed him. He’s very focused. Sometimes too focused.”

Understanding dawned in Mom’s eyes. “Ah. And you help him find balance?”

“I try.” I smiled, thinking of all the times I’d dragged Orson away from his books, shown him it was okay to live a little.

“And does he understand what being with you means?” Dad asked carefully. “The public scrutiny, the responsibilities, the expectations?”

The question made my stomach clench. “We’re working on that part. He knows who I am, obviously, and for his own reasons, he’s fine with keeping things private for now. But I haven’t fully explained what might happen when the press finds out.”

“You need to tell him,” Dad said firmly. “Before it blindsides him. You know how ruthless the tabloids can be.”