Page 7 of Prince Material
“You’re a terrible ambassador for American food culture, you know that?”
I shrugged. “Wait until you try Taco Bell at 2a.m. That’s when the real cultural education begins.”
His green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Depends on how desperate for food you get during finals week.”
I watched as he cut another precise bite of his burger, somehow managing to make even cafeteria food look elegant. His movements were graceful and practiced, probably fromyears of state dinners and formal events. Even here, surrounded by students wolfing down their food, he maintained perfect posture and proper table manners. It was kind of fascinating, actually, how he could make even this look dignified.
Then again, I hadn’t seen one bad picture of him online yet. And yes, I had looked some more, this time ignoring the obvious trashy websites that kept showing this video of him that I had a hard time reconciling with what I’d seen of him so far, and focusing on official pictures of him, in which he looked so damn handsome.
Not that I waslooking. Sure, I’d accepted my own sexuality years ago and had no issues with being gay, but dating and relationships were distractions I couldn’t afford. My goals were too important to risk getting sidetracked by attraction, no matter how gracefully the guy ate terrible cafeteria food.
“You’re staring,” he said with a wide grin. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he really smiled. Not that practiced, princely smile he usually wore, but something more genuine.
Heat crept up my neck. “Sorry. I was…” I scrambled for an explanation that wouldn’t sound weird. “…thinking about how different our food cultures are.”
“Nice save.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Though I bet we could find some common ground. Both our cultures have a thing for fried food, for instance. You should trybitterballensometimes. They’re these crispy little balls filled with beef ragout.”
“Sounds better than whatever this is supposed to be.” I gestured at the mystery meat on my own tray. “Though I’m confident nothing beats New Orleans beignets.”
“Bet you mystroopwafelscould give them a run for their money.”
“Your what now?”
“Stroopwafels. Two thin waffle cookies with caramel syrup in between.” His face lit up. “Actually, I have some in our room. It turns out Walmart here sells them, which made me very happy. Want to try one later?”
The offer caught me off guard. I usually avoided getting too friendly with roommates. It complicated things, created expectations I couldn’t meet while maintaining my focus on studies. But something about Floris made it hard to keep my usual distance.
“Sure,” I heard myself say. “Thanks.”
His genuine smile, so different from his usual polished one, made something flutter in my chest. I quickly looked back at my laptop, reminding myself why I was here. Civil engineering. Preventing disasters. Making Dad proud. I couldn’t afford distractions, even tall, charming Dutch ones with kind eyes and intriguing food.
But one cookie wouldn’t hurt, right?
“So what else do you miss?” I asked. “Food-wise, I mean.”
“Proper bread.” He sighed dramatically. “Dark, dense bread that doesn’t taste like sugar. Andhagelslag.”
He sounded like he was choking with two harsh g-sounds. “What now?”
“Chocolate sprinkles. But not like the ones here. Ours are different. We eat them on bread for breakfast.”
I stared at him. “You eat sprinkles. For breakfast.”
“On wholewheat bread with butter!” he defended, as if that made it more reasonable. “Don’t judge until you’ve tried it. Though I suppose it does sound a bit ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“Says the guy who questioned our portion sizes and how unhealthy our food was,” I teased. “At least we don’t eat dessert toppings for breakfast.”
His laughter was surprisingly warm and real, nothing likethe polite chuckles I usually heard from him. “Fair point. Though I maintain that your vegetables are still guilty of war crimes. Plus, you eat donuts for breakfast. Those have got to be worse thanhagelslag.”
We were quiet for a while as he ate.
“So,” Floris said finally, pushing his tray away, “what are you working on?”
I tensed slightly. “An assignment for Advanced Structural Analysis. Professor Gibbons likes to give us assignments right out of the gate.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “That explains why you look like the numbers personally offended you.”
