Page 9 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)

FLORIS

Worcester’s downtown spread before us. Historic brick buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with modern, glass structures, all bathed in the golden light of a September morning.

The Commons buzzed with weekend activity, food trucks lining the periphery while students and locals sprawled on the grass, soaking up what might be one of the last warm days before fall truly set in.

“I can’t believe you actually came with me,” I said to Orson as we walked, still half-expecting him to suddenly remember an urgent study session and bolt.

He looked different outside of our dorm room—more relaxed somehow, though still carrying himself with that careful precision that seemed as much a part of him as his wild curls.

And, much to my surprise, he was carrying a camera. A very nice one, even.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” He adjusted his glasses, a habit I’d noticed he had when feeling defensive. “Besides, you wouldn’t stop texting me reminders this morning when I was at the library. ”

“I sent exactly three texts.”

“In the span of ten minutes.”

“I was being thorough.” I grinned at his eye roll. “Come on, even you have to admit this beats staring at textbooks all day.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Not wanting to annoy him, I gestured at his Nikon. “I didn’t know you liked photography.”

He let out a little laugh. “I do. It’s a hobby of mine, but I don’t do it as often as I should.”

“Should? Isn’t a hobby something you do because you want to? Because you love it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a frown marring his features. “You’re right. I don’t use my camera as often as I would like.”

I bumped his shoulder. “Then I’m glad you brought it today.”

The morning air carried the scent of coffee from nearby cafés mixed with something sweet, probably from the waffle truck that had caught my eye. My stomach growled, reminding me I’d skipped breakfast in my excitement to start our exploration.

“You’re hungry,” Orson observed.

“I’m always hungry. It’s my natural state of being.” I nodded toward the waffle truck. “Want to split one? They smell amazing.”

He hesitated, that familiar calculation playing across his features. “I can get my own?—”

“Nope, my treat. Consider it payment for helping me with that calculus problem on Monday.” I was already heading for the truck, knowing he’d follow. “Besides, I need a neutral party to tell me if these measure up to proper Belgian waffles.”

“You’re Dutch, not Belgian. ”

“Yes, but I’ve had enough Belgian waffles to be a qualified judge. It’s practically a requirement of European royalty.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Orson said, but he followed me to the truck anyway.

Once we had our waffles, we found a bench near the Commons’ central fountain, where the spray provided some relief from the late-summer heat. Orson took a few pictures before he put his camera down and focused on his waffle.

The waffles were actually decent: crispy on the outside, fluffy inside, and drowning in maple syrup. The syrup wasn’t something I was used to, as we didn’t have it back home, but I did like it. It was slightly nutty and while sweeter than I was used to, still yummy.

“Verdict?” Orson asked as I took another bite.

I made a show of considering, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad. The texture’s good, though they’re sweeter than European ones. Belgian waffles are more about the dough than the toppings.”

“You really are a waffle snob.”

“I prefer waffle connoisseur.”

I watched as he carefully cut his portion into precise bites. Even when eating street food, he maintained that methodical approach.

“You know you can pick it up, right? That’s kind of the point of street food.”

He shot me a look. “That’s rich, coming from a guy who eats a hamburger with a knife and fork. Also, some of us prefer not wearing our breakfast.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I deliberately took a huge bite, letting syrup drip down my chin. His expression of horror was worth the sticky mess.

“You’re actually five years old. ”

“Six, thank you very much.” I wiped my face with a napkin, grinning. “So, what do you want to see first? Mechanics Hall is supposed to be amazing, or we could check out that art museum?—”

“You researched tourist attractions?”

The surprise in his voice made me pause. “I always research places I’m visiting. It’s kind of ingrained at this point, like a part of royal training. Know your destination, understand its history, don’t accidentally offend the locals…”

“That’s considerate.”

His words warmed something inside me. “It’s habit by now, though I have to admit, Worcester has more interesting history than I expected. Did you know this city was a major stop on the Underground Railroad?”

“I did, actually.” Orson’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. “There are still houses standing from that era, with hidden rooms and escape tunnels. The Salisbury House downtown has some of the original architecture preserved.”

“Want to check it out?” I suggested, hoping to maintain that spark of enthusiasm. “It’s not far from here.”

He hesitated, and I could practically see him weighing the educational value against his study schedule. “I suppose it would be relevant to my architectural history course.”

“That’s the spirit! Justify fun with academics.” I stood, offering him a hand up. “Come on, I’ll even let you tell me about load-bearing walls and whatever else catches your engineering eye.”

He ignored my hand but rose anyway, his lips twitching with what might have been a suppressed smile. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. I can talk about historical construction methods for hours.”

“Try me.” I fell into step beside him as we headed down the street. “I once listened to a two-hour lecture on proper fork placement at state dinners. I think I can handle you.”

As we walked, Orson began to relax, pointing out architectural details I would’ve missed—the way certain buildings used different brick patterns for stability, how window placements revealed their original purposes.

His voice took on a different quality when he talked about architecture, losing that careful restraint.

“See how the corners are reinforced?” He gestured to an old bank building that he’d taken at least a dozen pictures of. “That’s called quoining. It’s both functional and decorative.”

“Like your personality,” I teased. “Practical on the outside, but secretly artistic.”

He shot me a look. “You’re comparing me to a building?”

“If the load-bearing wall fits…”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure it does. You’re sturdy, reliable, carefully constructed…” I trailed off, realizing I might be revealing too much about how much attention I’d been paying to him. “And apparently, I need to stop before this metaphor completely collapses.”

To my surprise, he laughed. A real laugh, not one of his usual quiet exhales. The sound made something flutter in my chest.

“You’re impossible,” he said, but there was fondness in his voice.

“Thank you.” I bowed slightly, drawing another almost-laugh from him. “I do try.”

We turned down a side street, where the buildings grew older, their brick facades telling stories of centuries past. The sidewalk narrowed, forcing us to walk closer together. His arm brushed mine occasionally, each contact sending little sparks across my skin that I tried very hard to ignore .

This was dangerous territory. Orson was my roommate, and more importantly, he was someone who saw me as Floris—not the prince, not the tabloid target, but the real me. I couldn’t risk complicating that with attraction, no matter how much I wanted to make him laugh again.

But damn, he made it hard when he looked like this—relaxed, passionate about something he loved, those brown eyes bright behind his glasses and that wild hair catching the sunlight…

“Are you even listening?” His voice broke through my thoughts.

“Of course.” I hadn’t been, but I recovered quickly. “You were talking about… bricks?”

He rolled his eyes. “The structural importance of proper mortar composition in historical restoration, actually.”

“Right, that’s totally what I meant to say.”

“Sure it was.” But he was smiling slightly, and I counted that as a win.

As we continued our walk, I found myself watching him more than the architecture.

The way he gestured when explaining something complex, how his whole face lit up when he spotted an interesting structural detail, how he allowed himself to enjoy our surroundings.

This was a different Orson than the one who spent hours hunched over textbooks in our room, and I wanted to know more about him.

“That building there,” Orson said, pointing to an imposing structure with elaborate stonework, “is Mechanics Hall. It was built in 1857 for the Worcester County Mechanics Association.”

I whistled softly as he took a picture. “The acoustics in there must be amazing.” When he gave me a surprised look, I shrugged. “What? I know things. Plus, it was in my research. They host classical concerts there, right? ”

“Among other things. The architecture is incredible, a perfect example of Renaissance Revival style.” His eyes traced the building’s facade with obvious appreciation. “Look at those window arches, and the way they handled the cornices…”

It was hard to look at the building rather than his face.

The way his eyes lit up when he talked about architecture was captivating.

It struck me that maybe civil engineering wasn’t his true passion.

He seemed far more passionate about the art and history of buildings than about the mere structural aspects of them.

“Come on,” I said, nodding toward the building’s entrance. “Let’s see if we can look inside. Maybe they’ll let us check out that famous concert hall.”

“They do tours sometimes, but I don’t know if?—”

“Leave it to me.” I grinned, already heading for the door. “I have ways of making doors open.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to pull the prince card.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m naturally charming.”