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

by Iris Morland

  “I’m not scared of getting my picture taken.”

  “It’s not the photos—which are invasive, and they’re always wanting to get a controversial shot. The split second you step out of a car and accidentally flash your panties? They’ll sell that image for millions, and it’ll be on the internet forever. The moment your skirt flies up? When you’re sunbathing topless somewhere private, but they camp out kilometers away with a long-lens camera and still manage to take photos?”

  I held up at my hands. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  Olivier sighed. “And then what’s written about you in the papers.” His expression turned dark. “It’s vicious. Absolutely vicious. When I dated Aimée, she accidentally spilled some wine on her gown during some event.

  “I don’t even remember what it was for. The press spun the whole thing into making it seem as though she was a drunkard. They ended up nicknaming her Alcoholic Aimée, although that’s the English translation.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “I couldn’t even blame her for cheating on me. She was miserable. Although I wasn’t the one who wrote those things, it was being with me that caused it.”

  “That still doesn’t give anyone the right to cheat. She could’ve just ended things instead of sneaking behind your back.” I wasn’t much for dissing somebody’s ex, but I had to admit, if Aimée were in front of me right then, I wouldn’t have offered her one of our pastries.

  “Perhaps.” Olivier shrugged.

  “You sound way too calm about the whole thing. Any guy who cheated on me would have a death wish. If not from me, from my brother.” I shuddered at the thought of Liam finding out I’d been cheated on. He’d go on a murderous rampage.

  Olivier raised an eyebrow. “Yet you haven’t told your brother about us?”

  “What’s there to tell?” I shot back.

  “Now you’re being defensive.”

  I growled, crossing my arms over my chest. “He just gets way too overprotective. He still treats me like I’m a little kid. I’m not six years old anymore, but it’s like he still sees me like that. It’s frustrating.”

  “He cares about you.”

  “Of course he does. That doesn’t mean he can try to control my life, either.” I gave Olivier a pointed look. “You can’t tell me you enjoy your parents controlling your life.”

  “They don’t control my life,” he said dryly. “It’s more our way of life that does.”

  “Have you ever had a say? In where you went to school, what you wore, what you said to the press?”

  “As a child, no. As an adult, to some degree. But it’s important to present a united front to the public. One member of the royal family going rogue hurts everyone. It tarnishes the reputation we must uphold. As sovereigns, we don’t get to make choices like private individuals. It goes hand in hand with the job description.”

  “What are your parents like? I don’t think you ever told me. You already know about my brother, who’s basically been a father to me.” I then told Olivier about being raised by my aunt Siobhan and uncle Henry, including the day that Liam left me with them. It had only been when I’d been much older that I’d understood why he’d done that. As a child, it had seemed like he’d not wanted me anymore.

  “Do you remember your mother?” said Olivier.

  I shook my head. “I was only two when she died. Liam has told me stories about her, though.” I pulled out my phone to show Olivier a photo of me, my mom, and Liam. It was taken a few months before Mam died, and despite her smile, you could see the dark circles under her eyes along with the scarf around her head that showed how sick she was.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Olivier. He then said, “And you look exactly the same.”

  “Minus the baby mullet, you mean.” My hair had grown in slowly after I’d been born. As a toddler, it had eventually grown into a cute little mullet that had stuck around until I was almost four.

  “Liam always told me how happy Mam was when she discovered she was pregnant with me. She’d had cancer and had gone into remission, but her physicians had told her that most likely she wouldn’t be able to conceive again. She said that I was her miracle baby.” I smiled. “When I was born, she decided to name me Niamh because it means ‘radiant.’ I was her radiant one.”

  I felt my throat clog with tears. Even though I hadn’t known her, I missed her. What would she say about Olivier and this adventure we were on? Would she have wanted me to find Da? She’d loved him, even after he’d abandoned his family, at least according to Liam.

  Olivier took my hand, not saying anything. But I could feel that he cared through that simple touch. It was strange, I thought, how I was now able to be vulnerable with him when not too long ago, I would’ve rather swallowed my tongue than say these things in his presence.

  “What about your parents?” I wrapped my arms around my knees.

  Olivier’s gaze turned far away. “My parents were a love match, or at least my father has always claimed it was. My father says that the day he met my mother, he fell in love.

  “He called her and left a voicemail to go on a date with him, neglecting to mention he was the next in line to the throne. It took three more phone calls before she agreed to a date. It was a month later that they were engaged.”

  “Goodness, your father moves fast.”

  “I don’t know if my mother reciprocated his feelings. She was much younger than him, only nineteen when they married.” He looked at me. “Not much younger than you, I think.”

  “Is your mom Salasian?”

  “Yes, from the lesser aristocracy. She’s the granddaughter of a marquis. My grandfather, Prince Louis, didn’t approve of the match, however. My mother brought little money or influence with her, and there’d been some kind of scandal surrounding the family a few years before she met my father. But they married anyway.”

  “Sounds romantic. Like out of a fairy tale.”

  “If it started out as a fairy tale, it didn’t last long. My parents stopped sharing a bed by the time I was five years old. The only reason they never divorced is because it would be a stain on the royal family. My mother is also deeply religious.” Olivier’s lips twisted. “Only a dispensation by the Pope himself would compel her to divorce. Even then, I don’t think it’d be enough.”

  Olivier then told me that his parents had never fought. It was more that they’d transformed into platonic friends who happened to share a son and were married. They weren’t physically affectionate with one another, as far as Olivier had ever seen. They lived separate lives, had separate friends and hobbies. They only spent time as a couple and as a family when in the public eye.

  He told me about how he’d preferred sports and hunting over books and learning about politics like his father, Prince Étienne. When Olivier should’ve been attentive in class, he was getting in trouble for passing notes to friends and pulling on girls’ pigtails. He was rowdy where he should’ve been a paragon of good behavior, even as a child.

  “So I leaned into being the bad child, because no matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough for my father.” Olivier shrugged. “I’ve done little to change his beliefs in that regard since then.”

  I wanted to reassure Olivier, that surely his father loved him and didn’t think of him like that. But what did I know? Perhaps Prince Étienne truly did see his son as a feckless and immature failure. Perhaps he’d wished he’d had another son that had been more in line with his image.

  I realized that we’d both been parentless, just in different ways. It made me want to hug him. I wanted to tell him I didn’t see him as a disappointment, this prince I barely knew yet felt as though I’d known him for ages.

  “So you see,” said Olivier, his tone turning wry, “anyone who dares to date me is probably a little bit insane.”

  It was difficult to wrap my head around that kind of life, the life of a royal. And as I tried to grasp it, I realized that anyone who dated Olivier would be expected to behave like a royal, r
egardless of lineage. The mere thought of it made me feel ill.

  Sure, there were jewels, estates, and the opportunity to travel the world. You were treated like you were genuinely special and important simply by the virtue of your birth. There was some appeal to that, I supposed.

  But all of the money in the world couldn’t make living in a gilded cage appealing. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if this thing between us continued, I would be miserable sharing that cage with Olivier.

  “This sucks,” I said.

  He didn’t need me to elaborate. I hadn’t meant to ask this question. But even as I told myself it was a stupid idea, I said the words anyway. “If you were just a regular person…?”

  Olivier just smiled sadly. “Yes. The answer is yes.” Taking my hand, he stroked my palm. “No matter what happens,” he said quietly, “I’m glad we met.”

  Stupidly, I felt tears prick my eyes. I sniffled and squeezed his hand. “Yes. Even if you’re extremely annoying most of the time.”

  He didn’t laugh. He just leaned forward and kissed me, his lips feather soft, before returning to his room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Two days later, we were back in Dublin. Rain poured from the sky as we traveled to my da’s last known address. Located on the west side of Dublin, it took about a half hour to get there from my grandda’s estate.

  No, my estate. It was mine in all but name. Once I found my father and Mr. McDonnell had the proof he needed—what that would entail, I had no idea—it would be mine.

  When I’d been little, Liam had told me a few stories about our dear ole da. He’d been reluctant to share them, as if by talking about Connor Gallagher, it would somehow make his abandonment of us acceptable. I’d cajoled and begged Liam to tell me anything. I’d heard stories of Mam, but not Da. If he was included in a story, it was only in passing.

  “He was a drunk and he left,” Liam had said gruffly. At the time, he’d been visiting me in Olympia, where I lived with my aunt and uncle. I’d started second grade the month before, and I’d been waiting for Liam to visit for weeks.

  “Mam must’ve liked him,” I pointed out.

  Liam grunted. “Mam had a soft heart.” He ruffled my hair. “Just like you.”

  I wrinkled my nose and stuck my tongue out at him, belying his words. “Come on, just one. I won’t ask again for another.” I crossed my heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

  “Bloodthirsty little wench. Fine. Here’s a story.” Liam cleared his throat, like he was about to put on a performance.

  I watched him in rapt anticipation.

  “Long before you were ever a twinkle in Mam’s eye, Da woke up one morning and decided to drive us all the way to the Cliffs of Moher. I was maybe seven or eight. I’d never seen it, and Da just decided he wanted me to. Mam, bless her soul, didn’t have the energy to remind him that it was over two hundred kilometers away.”

  Liam looked over at me. “Do you know what the Cliffs of Moher are?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, whenever we go back to Ireland, I’ll take you to them. They’re these huge cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and there’s a legend that a woman chased after a man who didn’t return her feelings. He was nimbler than her on those cliffs, and she tumbled to her death. It’s called Nag’s Head because of that.”

  I scowled. “Nag’s Head? That’s not fair. She was just trying to tell him how she felt.”

  “Maybe. Or perhaps she should’ve just left him well enough alone.” Liam pointed at me. “A good reminder to never chase after a man if he doesn’t return your affections. A man should be chasing after you.”

  I filed away that tidbit of advice for later. Liam went on to tell me how Da hadn’t packed anything to eat on the way there, and they got a flat tire halfway there. Da was swearing and stomping as he replaced the flat with the spare, Mam trying to keep him calm. Liam had been complaining that he was starving, and Da had told him to stop whining, they’d eat soon.

  By the time they arrived at the Cliffs, it was nearly dark. Da hadn’t taken into account the time of year. Mam, being the sensible one, hadn’t chastised him for it. She’d merely advised Liam not to go too far. She didn’t want him plunging to his death.

  “Da scoffed at Mam being so overprotective. He let me go to the very edge of Nag’s Head, and I’ll always remember looking down at the crashing waves, the sunset streaking the horizon. I felt like I was at the edge of the world.”

  Liam’s mouth twisted. “Then I nearly fell straight off the edge when I turned around and stepped on a rock. Da caught me by my shirt, Mam screaming herself silly. I started crying, but after making sure I wasn’t hurt, Da told me to buck up and that I was fine.”

  The story ended there. I didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t the happiest of tales, and it didn’t make me wish I’d known my father. He sounded like he wasn’t very nice.

  “That day taught me that although Da would take me to see something like the Cliffs of Moher, he didn’t much care how I felt about it.” Liam gave me a sad look. “So you see, that’s one reason why I’m not so sad that he took off.”

  I didn’t know what made me think of that story that morning, as Olivier and I traveled to my da’s address. Then again, perhaps my subconscious was warning me, reminding me not to get my hopes up.

  Had I dreamed of my da showing up one day and telling me he loved me? Of course, when I’d been too little to understand why he’d left. Even as I’d gotten older and Liam had told me more about him, I’d still let myself dream about such things. The reality and my hopes were at odds for many years.

  And if I were honest with myself right now, there was still a small part of me, that little girl full of dreams, who hoped that her father had changed and would say all the things I needed to hear from him.

  It was still pouring with rain when we arrived at our destination. My heart was hammering in my chest as I gazed up at the old house, the taxi having already driven off. We didn’t know how long we would be.

  I’d brought an umbrella, and the rain pattered softly on its surface. Olivier took my hand, my fingers cold, and squeezed it.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “No,” was my honest answer.

  “We can come back later.”

  I huffed out a laugh, my breath steaming in front of me. “Then I’ll never get the courage to do this. No, let’s see if he even lives here.”

  At the front door was a callbox. We hadn’t been given an apartment number from Stefan, so we had to page through the names. When we reached the G’s, I was gripping my umbrella so hard my knuckles were white.

  Gallagher, Connor. There it was. Apartment 405.

  “What if he doesn’t let us in? What should we even say? Should we lie and say we’re selling something?” My words were stumbling off of my tongue.

  “I think you should say exactly who you are: Niamh Gallagher, his daughter.”

  I swallowed, hard. I input the extension, and it rang. And rang. I was about to give up when a voice answered gruffly, “Yeah?”

  I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, my voice dried up in my throat. I had to take two deep breaths before I squeaked out, “Um, it’s me. I mean, is this Connor Gallagher?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  Olivier gave me an encouraging look, nodding.

  “It’s Niamh. Your daughter.”

  Silence. A car splashed water onto the sidewalk near us, and I could hear some poor pedestrians yelling at getting soaked.

  My ears were ringing. I barely felt Olivier put an arm around my waist when I heard my da say, “Come on up.”

  The front door buzzed. Olivier pushed it open. Inside was a small, cramped lobby that contained two faded chairs and mailboxes on one wall. There was no elevator. We began the climb upstairs, the staircase squealing with every step. Lights flickered overhead. It smelled musty, the walls damp from the humidity.

  When we reached the fourth floor, I stopped,
but Olivier beckoned at me to continue. “This is the third story.”

  I looked at the door numbers. He was right. Shit, I’d forgotten that Europeans did stories differently than we did in the States. I hadn’t paid much attention in Paris and in Berlin since we’d always taken the elevator.

  “That’s just absurdly confusing,” I grumbled, trying not to start panting as we finally reached the correct floor. “How can the first floor be floor zero?”

  “It’s the ground floor.”

  “Which is the first floor.”

  “You Americans. Always have to do things differently when the rest of the world uses the metric system and ground floors.”

  I was smiled, but it was kind of wobbly. The stair climb had calmed my nerves a little. I wiped the sweat that had beaded on my upper lip.

  “Is my face super red?” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

  Olivier’s expression was almost sad. “Your face is perfect.”

  I knocked on 405, and then before I could think too hard about running in the other direction, the door opened. And then I came face-to-face with the man who’d given me half of my DNA but who’d never even met me.

  We assessed each other in silence. The photos I’d seen of Connor Gallagher had been over twenty years old, and the lines on his face and his receding hairline showed his age. Despite that, he looked so much like Liam that I struggled to find words.

  “So it really is you,” said Da finally. He held the door open. “Come in, then.”

  Da’s apartment was tiny with little in the way of furniture. There was an old futon that must’ve also served as his bed on one wall, a TV on the other. Various wrappers and cigarette butts were scattered across a nicked coffee table. There was a whistle from the kitchen that signaled a kettle boiling. It smelled like sweat and tobacco.

  Da brought two rickety chairs from the kitchen table for me and Olivier to sit on. He brushed dust off the leather and gestured. “Sit. I’ll get tea.” He then sliced his gaze to Olivier. “And you are?”