Page 44 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

ORSON—FIVE YEARS LATER

Amsterdam on King’s Day was… orange. Literally everything was orange. From what people were wearing to their wigs, glasses, ties, and other crazy accessories, it was all bright orange. Even trees, bikes, cars, and the famous canal boats were decked out in orange.

“Is this normal?” I asked Floris, staring at the sea of orange surrounding us.

We were about to start on a walking tour through the city center, following King Friso and Queen Annette, Floris’s parents, and his cousins and brother.

Apparently, there would be various activities along the way.

Floris had warned me about the possibility of being asked to participate in things like dancing—lord help me—old-fashioned games, or even rope climbing.

As he was far more athletic than me, I would happily leave that to him.

“For King’s Day? Absolutely.” Floris grinned, looking ridiculously handsome in his navy suit with an orange tie. “Orange is our national color. It represents the House of Oranje-Nassau, our royal family.”

“I know that part,” I said, adjusting my own orange tie for the hundredth time. Floris had insisted I wear it, claiming it was practically treason not to wear orange today. “And I thought I was prepared after seeing pictures and listening to your stories, but this seems excessive.”

“Welcome to the Netherlands.” He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Where we’re usually very sensible and down-to-earth, except for days like today, where we go completely crazy.

Oh, and when the Dutch national football team plays.

Or the Dutch skaters are doing well in the Olympics. ”

I’d visited plenty of times, of course, but never on King’s Day. Our schedule had just never worked out to be present for that. And since he was only a nephew of the king and queen, his presence wasn’t required. God, I couldn’t imagine what it was like for his cousins.

Around us, the crowd was growing, filling the Dam Square with a sea of orange-clad revelers. Music drifted up from various street performers, mixing with the general buzz of excitement. Children ran around with orange-painted faces, while adults sported increasingly ridiculous orange outfits.

“Your people really love the monarchy, don’t they?” I observed, watching the crowd’s enthusiasm.

“It’s complicated,” Floris said thoughtfully.

“The Dutch are famously direct and egalitarian. We don’t do hierarchy or formality well.

But the House of Oranje-Nassau has been part of our history for centuries, fighting alongside our people for independence, leading through wars and disasters.

Plus,” he added with a grin, “King’s Day is basically a national party, and the Dutch never say no to a good party. ”

As if to prove his point, a group below close to us started singing what sounded like a drinking song.

I couldn’t understand the lyrics. My Dutch was progressing well, though it took a lot of discipline and persistence because that language was damn near impossible, but that was beyond my skill level.

“ We zijn klaar om te gaan ,” Laurens said.

We’re ready to go . That was easy to understand. Floris had promised me he’d translate if needed, though the Dutch I had met so far had seemed appreciative and even charmed by my attempts to speak their language, even though I mangled the pronunciation in the most horrific way.

“Remember,” Floris murmured as we fell into step behind his family, “be yourself. The Dutch appreciate authenticity more than perfection.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who’d spent the last three years practicing Dutch phrases and proper royal protocol.

Though I had to admit, the Dutch approach to royalty was refreshingly different from what I’d expected.

King Friso had greeted me with a warm handshake and immediately insisted I call him Friso, while Queen Annette had pulled me into a hug and complimented my Dutch pronunciation, which was either very kind or very diplomatic of her, considering I still couldn’t properly pronounce their harsh g without sounding like I was choking.

The procession moved through the streets, where people had set up impromptu flea markets—apparently another King’s Day tradition.

It was called a vrijmarkt or free market, the only day a year where everyone could set up a flea market anywhere in the country and not have to apply for a permit or pay taxes.

Blankets and tables displayed everything from used books to vintage clothes to homemade crafts, all with that distinctly Dutch mix of practicality and whimsy.

Floris suddenly groaned beside me. “Traditional games ahead. Please tell me they didn’t set up koekhappen . ”

“What’s koekhappen ?” I asked, then immediately regretted it when his eyes lit up with mischief.

“It’s where they hang pieces of ontbijtkoek —spiced breakfast cake—on strings, and you have to try to eat it without using your hands.” He grinned. “Usually while blindfolded.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. And as visiting royalty, we’re usually expected to participate.” His grin widened. “For the photographers, you know.”

“No.” I shook my head firmly. “Absolutely not. I draw the line at making a fool of myself in front of international media while trying to eat flying cake.”

“But lieverd ,” he pouted, using that endearment that always made my heart flip, “it’s tradition!”

“So is jumping off bridges in some places. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

He laughed, the sound carrying over the crowd’s noise. “Fine, I’ll do it. You can watch and admire my superior cake-eating skills.”

And watch I did, trying not to laugh as Floris, blindfolded and grinning, attempted to catch a swinging piece of cake with his mouth.

Even King Friso joined in, to the crowd’s delight, while Queen Annette watched the whole thing with an expression of fond exasperation I recognized from my own mother.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” Laurens said beside me, watching his brother miss the cake for the third time.

“I’m perfectly happy observing,” I replied, wincing as Floris nearly got smacked in the face by the swinging treat. “Though I have to admit, it’s pretty entertaining to watch.”

“Just wait until they bring out the zaklopen .”

“The what now? ”

“Sack racing.” Laurens grinned. “Nothing quite like watching the future of Dutch monarchy hopping around in burlap sacks.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope. Though if you’re lucky, they might skip it this year.”

Floris finally managed to catch the cake in his mouth, raising his arms in triumph as the crowd cheered. He pulled off the blindfold, his hair adorably mussed, and immediately sought me out in the crowd. His smile when he found me was brighter than all the orange surrounding us.

“Your turn!” he called out, but I shook my head firmly.

“Not happening.”

“Spoilsport.” He bounded over to me, still chewing his prize. “Come on, it’s fun!”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I reached up to brush some crumbs from his chin, the gesture automatic and intimate. A camera clicked nearby, and I froze, suddenly remembering where we were.

But Floris caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm, completely unbothered by the photographers. “Let them see,” he said softly. “I want the world to know how happy you make me.”

My heart fluttered at his words, at the open affection in his eyes.

Five years into our relationship being public, and I was still getting used to moments like these, where our private happiness collided with our public life.

But Floris made it easier, showing me how to navigate this strange new world with grace and humor.

“Your Highness!” a voice called out. “Would you and your fiancé participate in the traditional ring toss?”

Floris looked at me questioningly, and I nodded. Ring tossing I could handle. Probably.

“Remember,” he murmured as we walked toward the game set-up, “these photographers are Dutch. They’re not looking for scandal or drama. They want to see their royals enjoying the day with everyone else.”

He was right. The Dutch press had been surprisingly respectful, maintaining a polite distance and focusing more on capturing genuine moments than manufacturing controversy. It was refreshing after the chaos that had followed our initial announcement.

The ring toss turned out to be more challenging than expected, especially with Floris deliberately trying to distract me by whispering increasingly ridiculous Dutch phrases in my ear.

His latest attempt—something about cheese-eating cats riding bicycles—made me laugh so hard, I completely missed the target.

“You’re terrible,” I told him, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

“You love it.”

“How do you like Amsterdam today?” a woman called out to me in Dutch.

I swallowed. “I love it. Seeing all the orange is wonderful, and everyone is so nice. I’m having fun.

Het is gezellig ,” I added, and that got me a round of approval from the crowd.

I’d really come to understand the meaning of that word, and I loved it, even if it was impossible to pronounce with two harsh g-sounds.

“Your accent is cute!” a teenage girl said.

Warmth spread through my chest. That was another thing I’d noticed about the Dutch; they genuinely seemed to appreciate effort, even when it came with mistakes.

“Thank you.”

The day flew by, much faster than I had expected, and with much more fun and laughter than I had counted on. The Dutch had a great sense of humor. Direct to the point of insulting at times, but if you didn’t take yourself too seriously, it was all good .

My favorite moment, though, was a beautiful rendition of the Wilhelmus , the Dutch national anthem, by a teenage girl.

Her voice rang out steady and proud as she poured her heart into the solemn song.

Out of habit, I put my hand on my heart, something the Dutch didn’t do, though they did seem to appreciate my gesture.