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

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