Page 3 of Prince Material
“Sounds thrilling,” Tore deadpanned. “You’ll be the talk of the town. ‘Dutch Student Really into Concrete.’”
“Better than ‘Royal Romeo Ruins Reputation,’” I shot back, then immediately regretted it when their faces fell.
Greg leaned forward, his expression serious. “Look, mate, you did nothing wrong. That wanker should’ve come forward and told the truth.”
“And risk his career? His reputation?” I shook my head. “No, it was better this way. Let people think what they want about me. I can take it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Nils said quietly.
I stood up, suddenly restless. “Well, that’s what being royal is about, isn’t it? Taking it. Looking perfect. Never complaining.” I forced a smile. “But hey, for one blessed year, I get to be Floris. No titles, no expectations, no press. Just me and my weird obsession with water management systems.”
“And terrible American beer,” Tore added helpfully.
“And terrible American beer,” I agreed, grateful for the return to lighter territory. “Which, if the movies are correct, will be served in copious amounts in red cups at those infamous frat parties.”
“That’s the spirit,” Tore said. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even join a fraternity.”
A fraternity? Now there was a thought I hadn’t considered. That whole Greek life, as the Americans called it, was rather foreign to me. Sure, we had fraternities at Dutch universities, but the American ones seemed to be at a whole other level. Something else I was eager to find out for myself.
Greg stood again. “Now, about those sandwiches…”
1
FLORIS
The things I did to prove a point.
I’d expected Massachusetts to be pleasant in the summer, like those idyllic New England postcards with their perfect, white churches and autumn leaves. The reality? Satan himself would’ve needed a cold shower.
Vernon Technical College looked as impressive in real life as it had in that fancy brochure they’d sent me, offering a fascinating mix of gothic-style buildings and modern, glass structures sprawled across gently rolling hills. My dormitory, Smelter Hall, stood like a proud sentinel among them, all Gothic arches and weathered stone that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the older universities back home, like Leiden.
But the stately appearance had been deceiving. The ancient building clearly predated air conditioning and possibly the invention of comfort itself. Maybe back in 1910, they didn’t believe one should be able to breathe in order to learn?
What a difference from the classic Dutch summer I’d left behind back home: windy, wet, and with a temperature hovering around eighteen degrees Celsius, woefully chilly formid-August. A happy medium between the two would’ve been great. Which reminded me, I needed to figure out how to measure temperature in Fahrenheit. There was a formula that I had learned in physics back in high school, but that felt like ages ago. Eighteen degrees was… somewhere in the mid-sixties, maybe?
Sweat trickled down my spine as I hauled my two overstuffed suitcases—because apparently, I couldn’t pack light to save my life—up yet another flight of stairs. The stairwell felt like a sauna designed by someone who’d never experienced joy. Through the tall, multi-paned windows, I caught glimpses of the pristine campus green, where other students lounged in the shade of century-old oaks, looking far more comfortable than I felt right now.
My polo shirt, which had started the day as a perfectly respectable piece of clothing, now clung to my back like a clingy ex who couldn’t take a hint. When I stopped for a quick breather, the wrought-iron railing beneath my palm was hot enough to fry an egg, making me wonder if perhaps I should’ve listened to my father’s advice about hiring movers. But no, I’d wanted the full college experience, hadn’t I? Besides, I wasn’t moving in with furniture or other big things. Just two suitcases and one oversized backpack.
I was seriously starting to regret my royal declaration of “I’ll do everything myself, like any other student!” That had seemed noble and democratic when I’d announced it back home in the Netherlands. Before I’d discovered my room was on the third floor. Before I realized this architectural masterpiece had been designed by someone who thought elevators were for the weak. Before my harsh confrontation with the hell-like temperatures here.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered as I nearly dropped asuitcase on my foot. At this point, death by luggage was starting to look like an attractive alternative to climbing one more step.
Fuck me sideways with a windmill. At least back home, everything was flat.
I staggered up the last few steps to the third floor, my legs burning in protest. Note to self: three flights of stairs while lugging two seriously overweight suitcases? Not my brightest moment. They had spinner wheels, I had told myself. Fat lotta good that did me when I had to carry them.
The long corridor stretched before me like something out ofThe Shining, identical wooden doors marching along both sides. Room 314 waited halfway down, my home for the next year. Only a few more steps.
I took a deep breath, shifted my backpack, and knocked before using my key. The door swung open to reveal my new kingdom—all twenty square meters of it—and my roommate, who was already there. Orson Ritchey from New Orleans, according to the housing info. Twenty-four years old and in the first year of his master’s degree in civil engineering. The Dean had placed me with an older student on purpose, he’d mentioned, perhaps worried the undergraduates would have a bad influence on me? Maybe he’d read some stories about me, the so-called Party Prince.
Orson stood at the window, tall and lean, with a riot of wild, brown curls that caught the sunlight streaming in. When he turned, his sharp features and intelligent, brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses stood out. He assessed me with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for complicated mathematical equations. I fought the urge to check if my shirt was on backwards or if I’d grown a second head. Maybe he was judging me for being such a sweaty disaster?
“Hi,” I said, dropping my suitcases and plastering on mymost winning smile. The same smile that had charmed countless dignitaries and gotten me out of trouble more times than I could count. “I’m Floris. Your new roommate.”
He crossed the room in three steps. “Orson.”
His handshake was firm and precise, like everything else about him seemed to be. Major points for that. I’d suffered through enough limp handshakes at royal functions to last several lifetimes. Those always felt like holding a particularly unenthusiastic wet fish.
