Page 18 of Prince Material
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.”
He snorted. “And so modest too.”
“Modesty is overrated. Besides,” I threw him a wink over my shoulder, “you haven’t seen me in action yet.”
As it turned out, charm wasn’t necessary. The hall was open for a pre-concert setup, and a friendly elderly volunteer named Margaret was more than happy to show us around. She reminded me a bit of my grandmother, if my grandmother wore sensible shoes instead of designer heels and carried a ring of keys instead of the weight of royal protocol.
“Now, the acoustics in here are so perfect,” Margaret explained as we entered the main hall, “that they say you can hear a pin drop from anywhere in the room.”
The space took my breath away. Soaring columns stretched toward an elaborately decorated ceiling, while afternoon lightfiltered through tall windows, casting warm patterns across rows of wooden seats. The air held that particular stillness unique to concert halls, a waiting silence that seemed to vibrate with possibility.
