Page 21 of Prince Material
Floris laughed, and something inside me tightened at the sound. “You know what this reminds me of? There’s this tiny coffee shop in Amsterdam, hidden in some back alley where few tourists ever venture. They roast their own beans too, and the owner is this grumpy old man who refuses to serve anything but black coffee. No sugar, no milk, definitely no whipped cream.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“You would think that.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Maybe I’ll take you there someday.”
The casual offer caught me off guard. “To Amsterdam?”
“Why not? You could see the Delta Works in person. Plus, all those historic buildings you pretend not to be fascinated by…”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Floris?—”
“I know, I know. We don’t talk about your secret love affair with historical architecture.” He held up his hands in surrender. “We’ll change the topic, I promise.”
“Thanks.” I took a long sip of coffee to avoid meeting his eyes. The cold brew was perfect as always, smooth and strong without being bitter. Like Floris himself, I thought, then immediately tried to un-think it. “What was it like, growing up in the public eye?”
Floris was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on his coffee cup. The afternoon light filtering through the windows caught the green in his eyes, making them almost luminescent.
“Complicated,” he said finally. “Everything you do, every choice you make, is scrutinized. It’s like living in a fishbowl where the fish are expected to perform on command.”
I waited, sensing there was more.
“You know what’s weird?” He leaned forward slightly. “The hardest part isn’t the big stuff, like the formal events, the speeches, the official duties. Those were manageable for me since the king is my uncle and not my father. My cousins have it much harder in that aspect. But even then, it’s the small things. Like not being able to have a bad day in public, or knowing that if you trip or say something stupid, it’ll probably end up on social media.”
“I can’t even imagine. How old were you when you realized you weren’t like everyone else?” I asked Floris.
“Four or five, maybe?” Floris took another sip of his coffee, his expression thoughtful. “There was this moment inkindergarten that stands out. I’d made this absolute disaster of an art project with glue and glitter everywhere. The teacher started to tell me it was okay, that not everyone could be good at art, but then she caught herself. Suddenly, my mess was ‘very creative’ and ‘showing real potential.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “That’s when I first noticed adults treated me differently. Not the kids. They were too young to realize, and that lasted until midway through elementary school. And after that, most kids were determined to make sure I wouldn’t feel special, so they sure as hell never gave me preferential treatment. The Dutch are pretty good at that, keeping your ego in check. But the adults, that was a different story. And once I was eighteen, the agreement the royal family had with the press about not harassing the kids no longer applied since I was now a legal adult, so that brought massive press interest.”
“That must be exhausting. Always being watched, waiting for the next headline.”
“It is. But you get used to it. You learn to be careful.” He traced the rim of his coffee cup. “Though sometimes, being careful isn’t enough.”
The resigned acceptance in his voice bothered me more than it should have. “Is that why you’re so good at wearing masks?”
His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“You have different versions of yourself. The charming prince, the carefree student, the serious engineer. But sometimes…” I hesitated, wondering if I was overstepping. “Sometimes, I catch glimpses of someone else. Someone who feels more real.”
Floris was quiet for a long moment, studying me with those intense, green eyes. “You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”
“Engineering brain. We’re trained to notice patterns.”
“Is that what I am? A pattern to analyze?”
There was something in his voice I couldn’t quite read. “No, you’re…” I searched for the right words. “You’re more like one of those historic buildings. Complex layers under a carefully maintained facade.”
His laugh was surprised and genuine. “You’re comparing me to architecture? After you came at me for saying you were similar to a building?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Maybe?”
“You know, most people try poetry or music for metaphors. But you go straight for load-bearing walls and structural integrity.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, but I was smiling despite myself.
“No, no, I like it.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tell me more about my complex layers. Do I have good bones? Strong foundation?”
“I take it back. You’re more like that waffle truck: all flash and questionable substance.”
Floris’s dramatic gasp drew looks from nearby tables. “I am wounded. Mortally wounded. After I bought you coffee and everything.”
