Page 37 of Prince Material
He bumped my shoulder. “Maybe, but you were there, and that’s not something I’ll ever forget.”
Sweet gratitude filled me. “Well, wait until you see what I brought as a hostess gift. Nothing says, ‘thank you for having me’ quite like three-hundred-year-old wine from the royal cellars.”
Orson stopped dead in his tracks. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Of course I am.” I laughed at his horrified expression. “I brought a lovely gift basket with some classic Dutch goodies, including some traditional holiday cookies. Though I did consider bringing the crown jewels. They make excellent conversation pieces at dinner parties.”
“You’re impossible.” But he was grinning now, shaking his head.
“That’s why you like me.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.
The humidity hit like a wall as we stepped outside, immediately making my hair curl. Back in Massachusetts, the humidity had made place for a cold, dry air that made my skin itch and my hands crack. “Oh wow. You weren’t kidding about the weather here.”
“Welcome to New Orleans.” His smile was fond. “Where the air is thick enough to chew and your hair has its own agenda.”
“I can feel my styling products giving up already.” I ran a hand through my increasingly unruly hair. “How do you deal with this?”
“Bold of you to assume I deal with it at all.” He gestured to his own curls, which seemed to have expanded in the brief time we’d been outside. “I’ve accepted my fate as a human dandelion.”
I laughed, following him to his car, an older model Toyota that had definitely seen better days. “A very handsome dandelion, though.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Orson’s ears turned pink, but he ignored the comment otherwise and opened the trunk for my bag.
“Mom’s excited to meet you,” he said as we pulled out of the parking lot, clearly changing the subject. “Though I should warn you, she’s probably going to try to feed you until you burst.”
“I look forward to it.”
American highways all looked the same—not that that was any different back home. But Orson navigated them with ease, confident behind the wheel.
“How’s Tia doing?” I asked.
His expression softened at the mention of his sister. “Better now that Mom’s home. She was pretty scared for a while there.”
“Understandable.” I’d gotten to know Tia a bit through Orson’s stories and the occasional video call. She seemed like a sweet girl, eager to please if somewhat naïve for her age. Precious, that was the best word to describe her. “And you? How are you holding up?”
He was quiet for a moment, focusing on navigating through traffic. “I’m okay. It was rough, at first. But Mom’s following all the doctor’s orders, and her prognosis is good.” He glanced at me briefly. “Thanks again for making it possible for me to get here so quickly that day. I don’t know what I would’ve done if?—”
“Hey.” I cut him off gently. “You don’t need to keep thanking me. That’s what friends are for, right?”
His smile was small but genuine. “Right.”
The city proper came into view, a mix of historical architecture and modern buildings that somehow worked together in a way that spoke of resilience and renewal. I could see why Orson loved it, despite everything that had happened here. I watched the unfamiliar landscape roll past—palm trees and sprawling oaks draped with Spanish moss, everything so different from the New England fall we’d left behind.
“I can’t wait to show you the French Quarter,” he said, some of his usual enthusiasm returning. “The architecture is incredible, with a unique blend of French, Spanish, and Caribbean influences. Plus, there’s this café that makes the best beignets you’ve ever tasted.”
“Better thanstroopwafels?”
“Way better.”
“Them’s fighting words,” I teased, loving how animated he got when talking about his city. Plus, I was proud to show off the expression I had learned days prior. “But I’ll reserve judgment until I try them.”
We turned onto a quiet street lined with modest houses, each with its own character. Some were painted in bright colors, others were more neutral but had wraparound porches, all with a distinct charm. Orson pulled up in front of a pale yellow two-story with a white trim and small front garden that looked well-loved.
“Home sweet home,” he said, putting the car in park. “It’s not much, but?—”
“It’s perfect.” And it was. The house had personality, warmth—not something I took for granted despite having grown up in a place that could be described as having grandeur. “Very you.”
He gave me an odd look. “What does that mean?”
