The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1)

by Iris Morland

  “Of course,” said Olivier after we’d returned to our room, the sun beginning to set now. “We can’t just call and ask about the clock.”

  I was brushing out my hair and putting it into a braid. “I think we’ll need to go to Berlin.”

  “That goes without saying.” Olivier busily typed into his phone. “I’ll book the tickets. Go get us something to eat, will you?”

  Annoyance made me reply sharply, “How about I buy the tickets this round and you get us something to eat, oh princely one?”

  Olivier raised a single golden brow. “Why so touchy?”

  There was no reason for my bad mood. We’d gotten the information we wanted, but perhaps it was that I’d be stuck with Olivier even longer. I gazed at him in the mirror, feeling my heart sink into my toes.

  Staying with him any longer was dangerous. But what choice did I have?

  “I’ll buy the tickets,” I repeated.

  “I told you I’d finance this trip of ours.”

  “You have, and I’m grateful. But I want to be able to contribute.”

  Olivier got up and stood behind me in the mirror. I’d already braided my hair, and he moved the braid over my shoulder. “You never leave your hair loose,” he said.

  “It’s way too long. I need to get it cut.”

  He pushed a few stray tendrils away from my neck, and I nearly came out of my skin. “Don’t cut it. It’s too lovely to cut.”

  Normally I would’ve told any guy to pound sand with a comment like that, but right then, I wanted to untie my braid and have him play with my hair. As our gazes met in the mirror, heat poured through my veins.

  I turned around. “You’re way too bossy,” I said, but the words were too quiet to sound like a reprimand.

  “I’m a prince.” He played with the end of my braid. “I’m supposed to be bossy.”

  I could feel the warmth of his body, standing so closely. He’d unbuttoned his collar, his collarbone visible. I’d never found collarbones attractive, but here we were.

  Some impulse made me stand on my tiptoes. I raised myself up, about to kiss him, when he stepped back. I reared backward, feeling like he’d slapped me.

  “Niamh,” he said gruffly. “Um—”

  I wanted to melt into a humiliated puddle right then and there. “No, don’t. I’m an idiot.” I grabbed my phone and stuffed my feet into my shoes. “Forget it. A momentary lapse in sanity.”

  “Niamh—”

  I didn’t wait to hear his excuses. If I did, I would’ve started crying, and who wanted to cry in front of a prince?

  Nobody, that’s who.

  I wandered the streets of Paris, completely unsure where I should go. Mostly I’d just wanted to get away from Olivier.

  I decided on going to one of the many bars near our hotel. This one looked like something straight out of the 1920s.

  The female bartenders wore flapper dresses with headbands, while the male bartenders had on trousers, white collared shirts, and suspenders with bolero hats. The interior was decorated with all kinds of colorful glass bottles, the lights over the bar in a semi-circle that made it seem almost like a stage.

  The bar was full of people, the sound of French moving around me in waves. I wandered to the bar, suddenly wishing I spoke French, mostly so I wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb. After glancing at the menu, I ordered a cocktail called the Green Fairy. Hey, I needed something to make me feel better, okay?

  The drink was sweet, fruity, and so delicious that I drank it way too quickly. It was also extremely strong. After just one drink, I felt delightfully buzzed. I ordered another.

  As my buzz increased to tipsiness to full-on drunk, the amount of men hitting on me increased as well.

  The first one, a Spaniard, had bought me my second drink, his white teeth flashing in the dim light. He was absurdly handsome, his accent was absurdly attractive, and even when he placed his hand on my lower back, I felt a grand total of nothing.

  “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked me.

  I wished I wanted to say yes. Olivier’s face, and then the way he’d looked after I’d tried to kiss him, flashed in my mind. At this point, I’d had more than enough alcohol to make very bad decisions.

  “Not yet,” I finally said, smiling. “I want another drink.”

  “Of course.” The Spaniard—had he told me his name?—waved at the bartender and ordered for me.

  Olivier had a right to say no to me. I told myself that, but it didn’t make me feel better. It only made the rejection sting all the fiercer. And then a swell of bitterness filled me, because he’d definitely flirted with me since we’d met. He’d touched me—my face, my hair—and he’d looked like he’d wanted me, too.

  I wasn’t so naive that I couldn’t tell when a man wanted me. Like right now: the Spaniard’s wayward hand was coasting up my leg. Goodness, if he kept going, he’d have his hand cupping my crotch.

  I considered reacting, but I was way too sloshed to care. Besides, at least one man wanted me.

  Even as the Spaniard pressed his advances, a Frenchman joined our little tete-a-tete. He said something deliciously sexy in French, to which I laughed and said I didn’t speak French, sorry, but it had sounded nice.

  “Is this man, is he bothering you?” Frenchman asked. He had the jawline of a marble statue. It was ridiculous.

  I glanced at the Spaniard, who hadn’t moved his hand. I shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed the free drinks.”

  That made both men laugh. Suddenly, I found myself with men all around me, flirting, buying me more drinks, telling me all about where they were from and asking me about the U.S.

  I felt powerful. I felt like the sexiest woman in the entire world.

  Until the Spaniard, drunk now, too, cupped my breast and breathed into my ear, “Let’s go, yes?”

  I pushed his hand away and got down from my stool, only to almost fall to floor. Great, I was really drunk. “No boob touching,” I said sternly. “I did not authorize that.”

  “Niamh.”

  I turned, so quickly that I saw stars. I had to grab onto the edge of the bar to keep from falling on my face.

  There was Olivier, his face red, his hands clenched into fists. Great, what had he seen? Had he seen the boob grab? Now I felt gross.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said. I lurched toward Olivier. “You found me.”

  Olivier’s expression was hard. Harder than I’d ever seen it. “You’re drunk.”

  “How can you tell?” I burst out laughing. I had to grab onto his arm soon after.

  “Let’s go.”

  Olivier grabbed my arm. He nearly hauled me from the bar, but not before the Spaniard tried to stop him.

  “Who the hell are you? She doesn’t want to go with you,” said the Spaniard.

  Olivier gave the Spaniard a look that you could only call terrifying. It was like the spirit of the haughtiest, richest asshole came upon him and he used all of that power to simply look at the Spaniard like he was a bug beneath his princely shoe.

  “We’re going,” repeated Olivier, his hand still on my arm.

  For my part, I was irritated at being treated like some doll. I loosened Olivier’s grip on my arm. “I don’t want to leave.”

  “See,” said the Spaniard.

  Olivier growled. “Stay out of this.”

  We were attracting attention. The Frenchman who’d also been flirting with me was watching closely, while I could see one of the bartenders tapping something into his phone.

  “Shit, come on.” I was the one who grabbed Olivier. I wasn’t about to get us arrested, especially in a foreign country.

  I stumbled through the bar, and Olivier had to help me out the door. I would’ve been embarrassed, but the nice thing about booze was that you didn’t have to feel embarrassed over nearly falling face-first into some strange woman’s lap because you could barely stay upright.

  “How drunk are you?” Olivier pulled me into the alley in between the bar and another restaura
nt. The streetlamp overhead illuminated his face. “Do you even care how much danger you put yourself in?”

  I burst out laughing. “Danger? Dude, I’m drunk and was having a good time. Nothing happened.”

  “Nothing happened yet. Those men were practically slavering like dogs over you. One of them could’ve easily gotten you to go with them—”

  “And what? We’d have had drunken sex? Oh no, call the police. Sounds terrible.”

  Olivier’s face turned red. “You are the most stubborn, idiotic woman—”

  I scoffed. “Like you’ve never gone to a bar, gotten wasted, and flirted with women. Come the fuck on, Olivier. You’re just mad because…” I racked my brain. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re mad. You’re throwing a fit because, what, I went off on my own? I’m an adult. I can go to a bar and drink my brains out if I want to.”

  Olivier looked fit to be tied. I’d never seen him this riled. If I’d had less alcohol in my veins, I might’ve tried to figure out why he was so upset. Or maybe the answer would’ve been a bit more obvious.

  But as it was, I wasn’t that astute in my inebriated state. I peered up at him. “Why are you so mad?” I wondered aloud.

  He pushed his fingers through his hair roughly. “I don’t want something to happen to you.”

  At that, my heart warmed, until he continued with, “I need you to get the clock returned to my family.”

  I deflated like a balloon. Pop. I was only useful to him. Ugh, I hated him. I wanted to go sic all those men who’d been flirting with me to beat him up.

  “You know what?” I poked him in the chest. “I don’t need this right now. You already humiliated me earlier, and now you’re just here to remind me that I’m just a useful tool for you and not that you really give a shit about my safety. And you can go take a long walk into the Seine and drown for all I care. You suck. You’re a bad person. I hope you get chlamydia.”

  To my shock, he yanked me into his arms, his gray eyes dark and stormy. “You’re not just a ‘useful tool.’” His voice was a growl. His fingers bit into my lower back. “Of course I care about you.”

  “You think I’m a nuisance and you refuse to kiss me. That’s not exactly a five-star review.” I didn’t care how petulant I sounded.

  “You think I’m not attracted to you?” His voice was incredulous. Before I could respond, he tangled one hand in my hair, the other still gripping my waist, and swooped in for a kiss.

  I wasn’t prepared for that. Even the embrace hadn’t prepared me for the heat of his lips moving against mine. I was so shocked that I just stood there, frozen, my brain completely at a loss remembering how to kiss.

  But Olivier knew. He coaxed my lips apart, his tongue slipping inside my mouth. I sighed. I reached up and held onto him by the shoulders. I felt dizzy. I felt like I could melt into a puddle right here in the middle of a darkened Paris street.

  “Niamh,” he gasped, kissing the side of my throat. He said more words in French, the bastard.

  But as I was gazing up at the sky, I was just as suddenly lurching away from him. And then I was vomiting right next to his feet and wishing the earth would swallow me up whole.

  Kiss a prince—check

  Puke on his shoes—check

  Die of embarrassment—check, check, check.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The moment the train left the station in Paris, Olivier rose and said, “I’m going to get some coffee,” and left me to my own devices.

  After my drunken shenanigans last night, Olivier had practically carried me back to the hotel. I’d proceeded to puke a second time—thankfully, in a toilet this round—and had eventually fallen into a restless sleep. It had only been upon awakening that I’d realized that I’d forgotten to book the flight for our trip to Berlin.

  When I’d informed Olivier, he had said calmly, “I know. I took care of it.”

  I’d been simultaneously grateful and annoyed. And I was even more grateful that he’d booked us train tickets instead of a flight, because good lord was I hungover. The thought of being smashed inside a plane for hours was enough to make my stomach lurch.

  Besides, according to Olivier, the only available flights would’ve taken about as long as riding the train. I hadn’t had the energy to confirm that tidbit. All I cared about was closing my eyes and trying to work off this hangover.

  Oh, and to forget about that whole “kiss and puke on Olivier’s shoes” incident.

  He hadn’t mentioned it. As far as we were both concerned, it hadn’t happened. Hell, maybe it really hadn’t happened. Maybe it had just been some drunken dream. But considering that I’d seen Olivier cleaning his shoes this morning in the hotel sink, I really couldn’t deny that it had happened.

  I sighed, pressing my fingers to my throbbing temples. “You’re such an idiot,” I muttered to myself. “How could you throw yourself at him?”

  Okay, to be fair, he’d kissed me. He’d been the one to grab me, press his mouth to me, and kiss me like a man desperate for my lips. And because I was just that stupid, my heart did a little flip in my chest at the memory.

  Olivier didn’t return quickly, and my eyelids were heavy. I dozed off, the motion of the train lulling me to sleep. When I awoke later, it was midday, and Olivier was sitting across from me, sipping coffee and tapping on his phone.

  He pointed to a drink next to his own. “I brought you some tea.”

  My heart flip-flopped again. Even though the tea was already lukewarm and tasted like not much of anything, the gesture was appreciated.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay. My head isn’t hurting as much.” I felt my stomach gurgle. “I should probably eat something soon.”

  “There’s a cafe on board. Third car, if you want anything.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence fell. I sipped my tea, gazing at Olivier out of the corner of my eye. He had circles under his eyes. Had he not slept, either? Guilt assailed me. I’d been kind of a jerkface to him last night.

  “Hey,” I said, my voice croaking. I cleared my throat. “Um, last night. I’m sorry about that. I really hadn’t planned on drinking that much.”

  His expression was shuttered. “It’s fine.” And then he returned to looking at his phone screen, effectively ignoring me.

  Fine, I could get that message. He didn’t want to talk about the kiss. He wanted to act like it hadn’t happened. Although my pride smarted, I knew that it was probably for the best. After we’d found my da and the clock, we’d go our separate ways. I knew that, but it hurt.

  Had we become friends in the last week together? I’d certainly gotten to see more of Olivier than just the golden-haired, arrogant prince I’d first met in Dublin. And despite him not wanting to talk about our kiss, I knew that he’d felt the chemistry between us just as much as I had. He could deny it all he wanted, but that didn’t make it untrue.

  Once again, I wondered if we shouldn’t just get each other out of our systems, have some hot, sweaty sex and then move on with our lives.

  You think you can do that without getting your heart involved? I asked myself cynically.

  Fine, I didn’t know. Olivier was different than the other guys I’d had flings with. He was…complex. Frustrating. Beautiful.

  Princely.

  Sunlight gleamed in his hair as he tapped on his phone, producing a halo-like effect. Even with the dark circles under his eyes and the hint of a beard on his cheeks, he had a dignity about him that made me wonder if it was innate or something instilled into people who were born to roles like he had been.

  He glanced up at me. “Yes?”

  I looked out the window at the passing countryside. “Nothing.”

  Olivier returned to his phone, but as I gazed out the window, I could see the reflection of his phone screen in the glass. To my amusement, he was just endlessly scrolling through his calendar. He wasn’t adding appointments or opening scheduled appointments.
Based on the glazed expression on his face, he was lost in thought.

  Right then, his phone rang. I wasn’t able to catch the name on his phone before Olivier rose, answered it, and walked away to find some privacy. The irony was that he was speaking in French, so it wasn’t like I would’ve understood the conversation, anyway.

  After about ten minutes, Olivier still gone, I got up to find the cafe. My hangover had transformed into being borderline hangry. I made my way to the third car, which was three cars from where we’d taken our seats. The train itself was slick and clearly fairly new. As I walked, I heard smatterings of French, Italian, and German, along with some English.

  Outside, the French countryside passed in quick succession. According to Olivier, we’d stop in Frankfurt, Germany, and transfer to another train to finish our journey to Berlin. Along the way to Frankfurt, though, the train would make a handful of stops along its route.

  After I’d gotten lunch and probably way too many snacks, I continued exploring the train. It was two floors, with the cafe on the first floor. I meandered down the cars when I heard Olivier’s voice. He was tucked into a little nook close to where the two cars were connected. His tone sounded frustrated, and yeah, I’d admit that I stopped and listened for a long moment.

  To my surprise, Olivier said in English, “Don’t worry about her,” before he returned to French. I strained, hoping he’d revert to English again, but despite a few random English words that made no sense without context, I couldn’t make anything else out.

  I turned to go back up the stairs at the front of the car, but I was so distracted that I didn’t see someone walking toward me. I ran smack-dab into a woman, who let out a loud noise of consternation when I accidentally trod on her foot.

  “I’m so sorry!” I said as the poor woman lurched toward an open seat. “Are you okay?”

  “Do I seem okay?” she said in a heavy accent. “Did you not see me?”

  “No, sorry, um, I can get you some ice—”