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

Big Guy’s eyes popped open. He stared down at Olivier, like a bear woken from hibernation. He said slowly, “Don’t touch.”

“Sorry. Not much room back here.”

Big Guy’s eyes narrowed. “Language,” was all he said before he closed his eyes.

“Hey, how about you tell me what that was all about before I wake up our neighbor and get you torn limb from limb?” I said.

Olivier scowled. “You wouldn’t.”

I showed him my phone. I unplugged my headphones, “W.A.P.” about to play as loudly as possible from my phone. My thumb hovered over the play button. “Three, two, one—”

“Fine! Fine!” Olivier glared at me so hard that I could feel my shirt burning up. “Anyone tell you that you’re a menace?”

“Every day. Now explain.”

Olivier crossed his arms, looking like a little boy who’d been denied a second piece of cake. “What do you want to know?” he said.

“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes. “Why did they want your autograph? What’s the prince thing about?”

“It’s because I am a prince,” he said in a low voice.

“What?”

He shot me a look. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

I just stared at him, my eyes bugging out of my head.

“A prince? What does that even mean—” I cut myself off, mostly because Olivier’s glare was so hot that I had a feeling he’d strangle me if I didn’t shut up.

I realized that I’d never asked him his last name. When I’d asked him where he was from, he’d been dodgy. I was about to search on my phone, but I refused to pay ten euro for thirty minutes of internet. My curiosity would have to wait until we landed.

Olivier didn’t say another word to me the entire flight. When we landed in Paris later that morning, I nearly threw my phone down the plane aisle because it refused to connect to the internet. “Weak signal,” it kept telling me. There were no wi-fi signals I could connect to, either.

Big Guy had woken up after the plane had landed. When I swore under my breath at my stupid phone, he tapped me on the shoulder.

“Sorry, language,” I said without looking at him.

He tapped me again, a bit harder.

I finally looked up at him. He said in the blandest tone ever, “He’s a prince. A real one.”

Olivier was currently getting his suitcase from the bin overhead, nearly getting into a fight with a guy who’d reached over him. The two were bickering like schoolchildren at the moment. Great. Just what I needed: Olivier getting arrested before we’d even gotten off of the plane.

“What?” I said to Big Guy.

Big Guy pointed at Olivier. “Prince. He’s one.” He gave me a pitying look. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t—” I then said to Olivier, “Are you going to duel the guy? It’s not that serious!”

Olivier’s face was red. “He almost hit me in the head with his bag—”

“If you had moved when I said excuse me,” the other guy said obnoxiously.

Big Guy, for his part, slowly lifted himself out of his seat and gently pushed the two idiots apart. “No fighting.” He gestured at me. “Line is moving. Hurry up.”

Olivier looked completely nonplussed, while the other guy had already moved to leave the plane. By the time we were all off, I was about to burst with questions for Olivier. But before I could once again get my phone out to search online, Big Guy beat me to the punch.

He pointed to Olivier. “Be nice to her. Just because you’re rich and royalty doesn’t make you better.” He then turned to me. “He’s not that famous of a prince. I only know about him because my mom is obsessed with royals. He won’t even be king.”

Big Guy waved a goodbye as Olivier and I watched him lumber away.

“We don’t even have a king,” groused Olivier. “We’re a fucking principality.”

My head ached. “I’m so confused.”

Olivier slung an arm across my shoulders. “You and me both. Let’s get out of here and get something to eat. I’m famished.”

Chapter Eight

Olivier finally spilled his guts at lunch. We found a little cafe a few blocks from our hotel—it was too early to check in, so we still had our bags with us—and I was currently stuffing my face with pastries and drinking two lattes in a row.

The city bustled around us: people walking and talking, cars going by, bicycles cycling past. The sound of French being spoken filled the air, although I heard a lot of English and other languages as well. Nearby was a couple sitting on a bench, both of whom were eating what looked like éclairs. Why hadn’t I ordered an éclair? I needed to do that ASAP.

I’d practically stuffed my face with food—a delicious chocolate croissant followed by two different flavored éclairs, coffee flowing freely, and then a platter of macarons and petit fours that were so amazing that I nearly cried.

“Are you even listening to me?” Olivier cocked his head to the side.

“What was this again?” I held up a bun filled with some kind of preserves.

“Brioche.” His lips twitched. “If you keep eating, you’ll make yourself sick. Have you never had French food?”

“Sure, there are some French places in Seattle. But this is Paris. You can’t compare the two.” I bit into the brioche, tasting lemon preserves along with the yeasty dough. Oh God, I was going to orgasm right here in the middle of the café, and I didn’t even care.

As I’d eaten, Olivier had told me the following:

He was, in fact, a prince.

His official title was Hereditary Prince of Salasia.

His full name was Olivier Étienne Jean Louis Valady, Hereditary Prince of Salasia, because he was just that fancy.

Salasia was a small principality nestled between France and Italy.

Olivier’s father was the current ruler of Salasia.

His father was the head of state, but it was mostly a title without any real power behind it.

His father could not order anyone to be guillotined. (You’re a royal but can’t send anyone