The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1) by Iris Morland (learn to read books TXT) 📗

clock was stolen, that’s not entirely true.” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I stole the clock to pay off debts I’d made gambling.”

“You stole your mom’s beloved antique clock? That’s low.”

“I thought it was just another antique that had been gathering dust. She’d never mentioned it was important to her or I never would’ve taken it. She didn’t even know it had been missing until a year later.”

“Still not a great look there, dude.”

He ignored me. “I know who I sold the clock to, but it was five years ago. The clock has obviously been sold a number of times since then.” He rubbed his chin.

“Then we could talk to your guy. Follow the breadcrumbs that way,” I said.

“I wanted to avoid this, because it will take who knows how long. That’s why I came here, but since no one knows where you father is…” His gaze landed back on my face before he put out his long-fingered hand. “If you agree to give me the clock if we find your father, then I’ll agree to finance any travel we may do.”

I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. It seemed too good to be true. “For real?”

Olivier smiled. “For real.” His hand still was held out. “Shake?”

I took his hand, the feeling of his fingers against my own nearly electric. Something heated passed between us, even in that brief touch.

“Okay,” I said softly. “You have a deal.”

“Oh, and one other thing.”

“Yes?” I waited breathlessly, feeling my pulse hammering in my throat.

All suavity, Olivier said, “Never use the phrase ‘gonorrhea-filled pants’ in my vicinity again.”

Chapter Seven

Three days later, Olivier and I were off to Paris. He’d tried calling this antiques dealer he’d sold his mother’s beloved clock to, but the number had been disconnected. Despite our best efforts at Googling contact info, all we had was an address in Paris for a tiny antiques shop that might not even still exist.

Olivier had assured me he’d take care of booking the flights. Although I’d agreed to him financing this trip, I’ll admit, I’d expected that it would involve him paying for gas as we traveled to and from Dublin, not flying to fucking Paris! I’d told him that I’d find the money for the flight. The last thing I wanted was to feel like I owed him something.

But before I’d booked my own ticket, Olivier came into the library to tell me, “I booked our tickets.”

My face twitched. “Our? I told you I’d pay for mine.”

He shrugged. “You can pay me back if you want.” He looked at his phone. “Five hundred euros.”

My jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ, we’re just going to Paris! Did you hire a private jet or something?”

“No, of course not. First class will do.” He sounded completely serious, too.

And of course, that sum of money would be more in American dollars. I didn’t even want to look up the exchange rate. I’d need to ask Liam to send me the money, which meant I’d have to tell him what we were doing…

“Can you cancel my ticket?” Sweat was beading on my forehead at the mere thought of divulging this plan to my older brother. He’d probably show up and haul me back to Washington in a burlap sack.

“Why would I do that? Are you reneging on your promise?”

“No,” I ground out. “I just don’t want to pay that much for a plane ticket.”

His smile was so obnoxious that I was way too tempted to strangle him in the middle of the library. “Then shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

“Thank you.” I nearly snarled the words.

“De rien, mademoiselle.” He even bowed, the dick.

“But I am paying you back. I just can’t pay you back right this second.” I wanted to swallow my tongue and die right there on the spot, having to admit that. “But I will when I can.”

“Suit yourself.”

When we arrived at Dublin Airport at the buttcrack of dawn the next day, I couldn’t help but notice that Olivier’s passport wasn’t French. I mean, the language looked like French, but the country on it wasn’t one I’d heard of.

“Where are you from, exactly?” I asked him after we’d arrived at our gate.

He gave me a strange look. “France, of course.” He said something else in French, just to be annoying.

“Yes, I know you speak French.” I rolled my eyes. “But I saw your passport. It wasn’t a French one.”

“I’m from Salasia,” he said finally.

“Oh.” I counted to three in my head before asking, “And where is that?”

“Between France and Italy. It’s a small principality.”

I waited for more information, but he merely sipped his Americano and proceeded to ignore me until we boarded. When we got in line for first class, though, the flight attendant’s eyes widened when she looked at his passport.

She rattled something in rapid-fire French. I caught Olivier’s name but obviously nothing else. Olivier replied, the flight attendant said something else, and then I yawned loudly, making Olivier say, “Sorry to bore you so.”

“But you’re so good at it,” I said sweetly. I handed my passport to the attendant, whose entire focus remained on Olivier. She was way too excited to see his stupid, handsome face. Then again, he was handsome. Maybe she was just super thirsty for attractive men today.

Olivier and I were in our seats when an elderly couple boarded, the woman using a cane. They stopped at our row, the man saying that we were sitting in their seats.

“I’m so sorry,” the flight attendant told Olivier, me, and the elderly couple minutes later. “The flight has been overbooked in first class. We do have two seats in coach, and we’ll compensate whoever is willing to move. Please accept my upmost apologies to you all for the inconvenience.”

Olivier looked at me. Then he looked at the elderly woman resting on her cane. “Of course they can have our seats,” he said smoothly.

The flight attendant took us nearly to the back of the plane, right next to the engine. Great, they gave us the crappiest