Page 38 of Prince Material
“Practical but with hidden charm. Like those built-in bookshelves I can see through the window: functional but pretty to look at too.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Comparing me to architecture.” But he was smiling as he grabbed my bag from the trunk. “Come on, let’s get you settled before Mom sends out a search party.”
The front door opened before we reached it, revealing a girl with Orson’s wild curls and sharp features. She bounded down the steps and threw herself at her brother, who caught her one-armed while somehow managing not to drop my bag.
“You’re late,” she accused, then turned to me with a bright smile. “Hi! I’m Tia. Thanks for letting my brother borrow your private jet.”
“Tia,” Orson groaned, but I laughed.
“Technically, it wasn’t mine. And I’m Floris. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
“Come in, come in!” A woman’s voice called from inside. “You’re letting all the air conditioning out!”
Orson’s mom stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip. She was smaller than I’d expected, with laugh lines around her eyes and that same determined set to her jaw that Orson got when tackling particularly challenging problems. There was some color in her cheeks, thank god, though she looked tired.
“Mrs. Ritchey,” I started formally, but she waved me off.
“Diana, please. And get in here so I can hug you properly.”
Before I could respond, I found myself enveloped in a warm embrace that smelled of vanilla and something spicy. The hug was firm but gentle, motherly in a way that made my throat tight with how much I missed my own mom suddenly.
“Thank you,” she whispered, just for me to hear. “For getting my son home that day.”
“I—” I started, but she pulled back, holding me at arm’s length to study my face.
“You’re too skinny,” she declared. “Don’t they feed you at that fancy college?”
“Mom,” Orson protested, but there was fond exasperation in his voice. “He just got here.”
“And he’s going to eat proper food while he’s here.” She patted my cheek. “I’ve got gumbo simmering, and there’s bread pudding for dessert.”
My stomach growled right on cue, making everyone laugh. “That sounds amazing.”
“Good answer.” She turned to Orson. “Show him where he’s staying, then bring him back down. The gumbo needs about twenty more minutes anyway.”
The inside of the house was as charming as the exterior—hardwood floors worn smooth by years of footsteps, walls painted in warm colors and decorated with family photos. I followed Orson upstairs, trying not to be too obvious about studying the pictures. There was one of a much younger Orson holding baby Tia, his wild curls even more unruly than now. Another showed him with a man who must have been his father, both grinning at the camera with identical dimples.
“You can have my room,” Orson said, pushing open a door. “I’ll take the couch.”
“I can’t kick you out of your room?—”
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.” He set my bag down. “Besides, Mom would kill me if I made a guest sleep on the couch.”
I looked around the room, taking in the details. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with engineering texts and what looked like historical architecture books. A desk sat under the window, everything arranged with Orson’s characteristic precision. The walls were a soft blue that reminded me of the sky after a storm.
“Bathroom’s across the hall. I’ll let you get settled.”
“Orson.” I caught his arm before he could leave. “Thank you. For inviting me.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Warmth maybe, or understanding. “Thank you for coming.”
We stood there for a moment, my hand still on his arm, and I found myself studying the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the way his curls fell across his forehead. The urge to brush them back was almost overwhelming.
“Boys!” Diana’s voice floated up the stairs. “Gumbo’s ready!”
