Page 22 of Prince Material
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I? Or will I crumble like poorly maintained masonry?”
I laughed. The sound surprised even me. “You’re hilarious.”
His smile faded. “I’ve learned to be entertaining, since that’s what people seemed to expect. I mean, I’m not forcing it, don’t get me wrong. But it did grow out of necessity originally. You learn pretty quickly that there’s the real you and the public you, and those aren’t always the same person.”
Something in his voice resonated with me—that sense of performing, of trying to live up to expectations. Though in mycase, it was one person’s expectations. My own. “Is that why you’re here? To find out who the real you is?”
His green eyes met mine, startlingly direct. “Partly. But mostly I’m here because I’m tired of being careful all the time. Of second-guessing every word, every action.” Floris paused, then added quietly, “Of being perfect. I can make normal mistakes here, like leaving my laundry in the dryer too long or getting lost on campus.” His lips curved into a smile. “Nobody knows who I am, so nobody’s watching, waiting for me to mess up.”
“Except me,” I pointed out.
His laugh was surprisingly warm. “Yeah, but you’re different. You don’t care about the prince thing.”
“Should I?”
“God, no.” He took another sip of coffee. “It’s refreshing. Most people either treat me like I’m made of glass or try to use me to get something. And then there’s a few who treat me like shit to make sure I’m not getting arrogant. You treat me like I’m…”
“A disaster who can’t remember to get his laundry?”
“I was going to say ‘normal’ but yeah, that works too.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Though I’ll have you know, I’m getting better at the laundry thing.”
“You left your socks in the dryer again yesterday.”
“Details.” He waved dismissively. “The point is, it’s nice having someone who sees past all the royal stuff. Who sees… me.”
Something in his voice made me look up, and our eyes met across the table. For a moment, neither of us spoke, and I felt that dangerous flutter in my chest again. I cleared my throat. “Even if ‘you’ is someone who thinks chocolate sprinkles are a legitimate breakfast food?”
“Hagelslag,” he corrected. “And don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Besides, you Americans put marshmallows on sweet potatoes and call it a vegetable dish. You have no room to judge.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“It just is.” I couldn’t help smiling at his exaggerated eye roll. “At least we don’t eat raw fish by dangling it over our mouths.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Nope.”
He laughed again, and I watched the way his whole face lit up when he was genuinely amused. It was different from his public smile—warmer, more real. I was starting to catalog these differences, noting when the mask slipped and the real Floris showed through. That was probably dangerous.
I cleared my throat. “In the Netherlands, do you usually have security?”
“God, no.” He looked at me in horror. “You mean like the Secret Service? With earpieces and those scary, dark suits that probably come with a lifetime subscription toResting Murder Face Monthly?”
I snorted. He was so funny. “Yeah.”
“No, and if they offered it to me, I’d refuse faster than my brother turns down carbs. I understand why it’s needed for my uncle and his direct family, but no, thank you. That’s such an invasion of privacy that I’d never score a hookup ever again. Can you imagine?” He pretended to do a dramatic whisper into an imaginary earpiece. “‘Target is making bedroom eyes at subject in blue shirt. Permission to engage in flirting? Over.’ Yeah, that’s a mood killer right there.”
I almost spat my coffee out and needed a moment to control myself enough to swallow. “Can you refrain from being so funny when I’m trying to drink coffee?”
Floris grinned. “No promises. Your reactions are too entertaining.” He leaned back in his chair, studying me. “You know, you should laugh more often. It suits you.”
Heat crept up my neck, and I busied myself with my coffee to hide my reaction. “So, no security, but there must be other restrictions? Rules?”
“Some.” He shrugged. “Don’t embarrass the family, try not to cause international incidents, that sort of thing. Though according to certain British tabloids, I’m not very good at following those.”
