Page 1 of Prince Material
PROLOGUE
FLORIS
I sprawled in one of the ancient, wooden loungers that had probably seen more royal butts than the throne itself. The evening sun painted long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawns of Het Oude Loo, the palace that had been my home all my life, and the garden’s familiar scents—freshly cut grass, blooming roses, and that earthy dampness from the castle moat that always reminded me of a forest in the rain—wrapped around me like the world’s poshest security blanket.
Even better was the company of my three best friends, all princes, like me. We’d met practically at birth and had grown up together in the public eye, though in different countries. Tore was from Norway, Nils from Sweden, Greg represented the United Kingdom, and I was a proud member of the Dutch royal family. Well, mostly proud anyway.
I took a long pull from my Heineken, savoring what might be my last beer for a while. In America, eighteen was old enough to drive, marry, kill, or die in battle, but not old enough to have a beer. Somebody needed to explain that to me as if I were still inelementary school because it made no sense to me. Anyway, I’d have to wait one more year to be allowed to drink.
“You’re seriously giving up beer for a year?” Greg’s British accent dripped with disbelief as he lounged in the chair next to mine. “That’s a human rights violation, if you ask me.”
I snorted. “Pretty sure my late grandfather would disown me if he knew. Though I’m confident that despite the legal age, beer will be served at frat parties, right? That’s what they always show in the movies anyway. But hey, what’s the worst that could happen? I become the first sober Dutch prince in history?”
“The press would have a field day with that one,” Tore chimed in from where he was sprawled in the grass. “‘Dutch Prince Abandons National Beverage.’ They’d probably call it a diplomatic crisis.”
The mention of the press made my jaw clench. I forced myself to relax, but not before catching Greg’s knowing look. He’d always been the most observant of our little royal quartet, and it had been the British tabloid press that had crucified me without ever bothering to check the veracity of their allegations.
“Speaking of the press,” Nils said carefully, “have you figured out how you’re going to stay under their radar at Vernon?”
“Yeah.” I sat up straighter, warming to the topic I’d spent months planning. “The American press doesn’t give a shit about European royalty unless we’re getting married or spectacularly screwing up. And most Americans couldn’t pick me out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. I’m going to be Floris van Oranje. Drop the Nassau, keep it simple.”
“And when someone googles you?” Greg arched an eyebrow. “Your real identity will pop up.”
“Then I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to announce it. I want…” I trailed off, searching for the right words. “I want to be normal for a while. Have the opportunity to mess up without it making international headlines.”
The others went quiet, and I knew they were all thinking about the video. The edited footage that made me look like… I cut that thought off before it could fully form.
“We know what really happened,” Tore said quietly. “That’s what matters.”
I managed a weak smile. “Yeah. But sometimes, I wonder if being the first openly gay prince is worth all this scrutiny. Every move I make, someone’s waiting for me to fuck up again.”
“Which is exactly why this year in Massachusetts is perfect timing,” Greg pointed out. “You get to be a regular college student. Well, a very tall, very Dutch college student with questionable fashion sense, but still.”
“My fashion sense is impeccable,” I protested, though I couldn’t help grinning. “Even if it’s not quite up to your stuffy British standards. But yeah, that’s the plan. How’s your planning coming along, Tore?”
“Six weeks from now, I will be Tore Haakon, star football player for the Hawley Hawks of Hawley College in Ohio.”
I snorted. “You may wanna start by calling it soccer.”
Tore rolled his eyes. “Semantics.”
“Not to Americans,” Greg pointed out. “They’ll be mighty confused when you start talking about being a midfielder in football, as that is not a known position in American football.”
I studied Tore. “You wouldn’t make a bad quarterback, actually. You’ve got the build for it.”
“Sure, and if they actually kicked the ball instead of throwing it, I might stand a chance.” Tore threw up his hands. “Why on earth would they call it football when they aren’t even allowed to kick the ball?”
I wasn’t about to debate that with him since I didn’t see the logic either.
“It’s not even a proper ball, is it?” Greg said. “Their football. It’s more of an oval than a ball, really.”
“An egg,” Nils declared solemnly. “They play with a leather egg.”
“Speaking of eggs,” I said, “anyone hungry? The kitchen staff made those sandwiches you love so much, Greg.”
“The ones with carpaccio and truffle mayonnaise on that wholewheat Dutch bread?” Greg perked up like a meerkat spotting something interesting. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
I grinned. “Because I enjoy watching you pretend to be too posh to ask for them.”
