Page 87 of Prince Material
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah.” He lifted his head to meet my eyes, his expression serious despite his smile. “I really do.”
My phone buzzed again. It was Margriet, probably wondering why I hadn’t called back yet. But for once, the press and protocols and proper statements could wait. Right now, all I wanted was this moment, with this beautiful, brilliant man who loved me not despite my complications but with all of them.
The truth was finally out there. And so were we.
EPILOGUE
ORSON—FIVE YEARS LATER
Amsterdam on King’s Day was… orange. Literally everything was orange. From what people were wearing to their wigs, glasses, ties, and other crazy accessories, it was all bright orange. Even trees, bikes, cars, and the famous canal boats were decked out in orange.
“Is this normal?” I asked Floris, staring at the sea of orange surrounding us. We were about to start on a walking tour through the city center, following King Friso and Queen Annette, Floris’s parents, and his cousins and brother. Apparently, there would be various activities along the way. Floris had warned me about the possibility of being asked to participate in things like dancing—lord help me—old-fashioned games, or even rope climbing. As he was far more athletic than me, I would happily leave that to him.
“For King’s Day? Absolutely.” Floris grinned, looking ridiculously handsome in his navy suit with an orange tie. “Orange is our national color. It represents the House of Oranje-Nassau, our royal family.”
“I know that part,” I said, adjusting my own orange tie for thehundredth time. Floris had insisted I wear it, claiming it was practically treason not to wear orange today. “And I thought I was prepared after seeing pictures and listening to your stories, but this seems excessive.”
“Welcome to the Netherlands.” He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. “Where we’re usually very sensible and down-to-earth, except for days like today, where we go completely crazy. Oh, and when the Dutch national football team plays. Or the Dutch skaters are doing well in the Olympics.”
I’d visited plenty of times, of course, but never on King’s Day. Our schedule had just never worked out to be present for that. And since he was only a nephew of the king and queen, his presence wasn’t required. God, I couldn’t imagine what it was like for his cousins.
Around us, the crowd was growing, filling the Dam Square with a sea of orange-clad revelers. Music drifted up from various street performers, mixing with the general buzz of excitement. Children ran around with orange-painted faces, while adults sported increasingly ridiculous orange outfits.
“Your people really love the monarchy, don’t they?” I observed, watching the crowd’s enthusiasm.
“It’s complicated,” Floris said thoughtfully. “The Dutch are famously direct and egalitarian. We don’t do hierarchy or formality well. But the House of Oranje-Nassau has been part of our history for centuries, fighting alongside our people for independence, leading through wars and disasters. Plus,” he added with a grin, “King’s Day is basically a national party, and the Dutch never say no to a good party.”
As if to prove his point, a group below close to us started singing what sounded like a drinking song. I couldn’t understand the lyrics. My Dutch was progressing well, though it took alot of discipline and persistence because that language was damn near impossible, but that was beyond my skill level.
“We zijn klaar om te gaan,” Laurens said.
We’re ready to go. That was easy to understand. Floris had promised me he’d translate if needed, though the Dutch I had met so far had seemed appreciative and even charmed by my attempts to speak their language, even though I mangled the pronunciation in the most horrific way.
“Remember,” Floris murmured as we fell into step behind his family, “be yourself. The Dutch appreciate authenticity more than perfection.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who’d spent the last three years practicing Dutch phrases and proper royal protocol. Though I had to admit, the Dutch approach to royalty was refreshingly different from what I’d expected. King Friso had greeted me with a warm handshake and immediately insisted I call him Friso, while Queen Annette had pulled me into a hug and complimented my Dutch pronunciation, which was either very kind or very diplomatic of her, considering I still couldn’t properly pronounce their harsh g without sounding like I was choking.
The procession moved through the streets, where people had set up impromptu flea markets—apparently another King’s Day tradition. It was called avrijmarktor free market, the only day a year where everyone could set up a flea market anywhere in the country and not have to apply for a permit or pay taxes. Blankets and tables displayed everything from used books to vintage clothes to homemade crafts, all with that distinctly Dutch mix of practicality and whimsy.
Floris suddenly groaned beside me. “Traditional games ahead. Please tell me they didn’t set upkoekhappen.”
“What’skoekhappen?” I asked, then immediately regretted it when his eyes lit up with mischief.
“It’s where they hang pieces ofontbijtkoek—spiced breakfast cake—on strings, and you have to try to eat it without using your hands.” He grinned. “Usually while blindfolded.”
I stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. And as visiting royalty, we’re usually expected to participate.” His grin widened. “For the photographers, you know.”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “Absolutely not. I draw the line at making a fool of myself in front of international media while trying to eat flying cake.”
“Butlieverd,” he pouted, using that endearment that always made my heart flip, “it’s tradition!”
“So is jumping off bridges in some places. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
