Page 23 of Prince Material
The bitterness in his voice made me look up. “That video?—”
“Let’s not.” He cut me off, but gently. “Today’s been good. I’d rather not ruin it by diving into that particular mess. I shouldn’t have brought it up again.”
I nodded, understanding the need to keep some wounds private.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping our coffee. Outside, people hurried past the windows, caught up in their own lives, completely unaware they were walking past actual royalty.
“Sometimes, I forget,” I said.
“Forget what?”
“Who you are. I mean, notyouyou, but…” I gestured vaguely, trying to find the right words. “Princeyou.”
His smile was soft, genuine. “Good. That’s exactly what I want.” He paused, then added, “Though I hope you remember enough not to be shocked when the British tabloids eventually figure out where I am and show up with their cameras and creative interpretation of facts.”
“Will they?”
“Eventually. They always do.” He sighed, running a handthrough his hair. “But hopefully not for a while. I’d like to enjoy this—” he gestured between us “—while it lasts.”
Something warm unfurled inside me at his words. “This?”
“You know, having a friend who sees me. Who calls me out on my bullshit and doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass.” He met my eyes. “It’s nice.”
“Even when I lecture you about laundry etiquette?”
“Especially then.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Though I maintain that the dryer is plotting against me. It eats socks on purpose.”
“Sure it does.” I couldn’t help smiling. “It’s all part of an elaborate conspiracy by American appliances to undermine European royalty.”
“Finally, someone who understands!” He threw up his hands dramatically. “Next, you’ll tell me you’ve noticed how the washing machines are secretly allied with the vending machines to create chaos.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
And God help me, I did. That was becoming a problem.
7
FLORIS
Rule number one of being gay is that you don’t look at other guys in the locker room or shower. Or in your dorm room, when you accidentally walk in on your roommate getting changed, as fate would have it. Orson immediately turned his back to me, treating me to a view of his rather spectacular ass.Look away, I told myself firmly.Dammit, Floris, look away.
Only when Orson pulled up his tight boxer briefs—not really much of an improvement on his previous state since they perfectly outlined said ass—did I manage to drag my eyes off him. Jesus, if he saw me staring at him like this, he’d immediately ask for another roommate. He might be gay, but that didn’t mean I could stare. That I should stare.
I forced myself to turn around, fumbling with my own clothes as I tried to ignore the rustling sounds behind me. My face felt hot, and not from the humid September air seeping through our ancient windows.
“Sorry,” I managed, proud that my voice sounded almost normal. “I should’ve knocked.”
“It’s your room too,” Orson said, his voice muffled like he was pulling on a shirt. Thank god. Or maybe not thank god, because now I had the image of his lean back seared into my brain, all smooth skin and subtle muscle that spoke of someone who took care of himself without being showy about it.
To distract myself, I started changing too, though my hands felt clumsy on my buttons. The fact that I could feel his presence behind me made everything ten times more complicated. Not that he would watch. Orson was too proper, too focused on his studies to notice things like his disaster of a roommate trying not to spontaneously combust from attraction.
“I’m heading to the Eagles game,” I said, desperate to fill the charged silence. “Want to come?”
“Can’t. Need to study.”
Of course he did. I pulled my newly purchased Vernon Eagles jersey over my head, then risked a glance over my shoulder. Orson was fully dressed now, though those jeans really weren’t much better than the boxer briefs had been. They still showed every line of his body. His very, very attractive body.
