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

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, regardless 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