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

by Iris Morland

  I took out my headphones to hear Olivier apologizing, the tripper apologizing, and even the flight attendant behind the tripper apologizing. It was practically an apology orgy.

  I glanced up at Big Guy. He was still sound asleep, a line of drool hanging from his mouth. Sometimes he let out a particularly loud snore that was loud enough for me to hear through my headphones, but apparently not loud enough to wake himself up.

  I’d dozed off when I was awoken to a woman’s voice nearby. She kept getting louder. I yawned, turning off my music, half expecting someone else to be raging at Olivier. But, no, it was the flirty flight attendant from when we’d boarded along with another one.

  The second flight attendant was no older than me, but where I was straight as a board and not remotely feminine, she was curvy, blond, and wore blindingly red lipstick that complimented her skin beautifully. Despite being stuck in a cramped plane in dry, recycled air and terrible lighting, she managed to look glowy. I’d be annoyed, if I weren’t thoroughly impressed.

  “May I get your autograph?” Blond Flight Attendant said, her accent marking her as Irish. “I’m a huge fan,” she gushed.

  I blinked. She was asking Olivier for an autograph? Why? Just because he was hot?

  The French flight attendant who’d spoken with Olivier earlier said in accented English, “Oh, I don’t know what I should have you sign—”

  From where I was sitting, I could just make out French girl’s name badge: Nicole. Nicole was currently searching in her pockets, even going so far as to look down her blouse, as if a notepad would just be waiting in her cleavage to use for this occasion.

  “Here, how about I sign this?” Olivier pulled out a journal from his backpack and tore off two pages of what looked like nice paper. “If I’d known you two would be on board, I would’ve brought something nicer to sign.” He winked. Winked!

  I made a gagging noise. Olivier shot me a dark look before he returned to autographing.

  “Can you make it out to Elsie?” said the blond flight attendant. “That’s Elsie with an ‘ie’ at the end. Oh, and can you sign it as ‘Prince’?”

  I could only see half of Olivier’s face, but I could see his smile falter. “I never sign my name like that,” he said, the words rather harsh.

  I had to admit, I was watching this with avid interest. Why these women wanted him to sign their autographs like he was some royal prince, I didn’t know.

  After the women finally went back to work, I leaned so I could catch Olivier’s attention. “Hey! What the hell was that all about?”

  Olivier shrugged one shoulder. “No idea.”

  “You’re such a liar.” I tried to lean closer, but that just meant I was pressing my arm against Big Guy’s. I checked to make sure he was still sleeping: he was. “Why did they want you to sign their autographs like that?”

  “I’m not discussing this right now.”

  “Well, where are you gonna go? Hide in the bathroom for the rest of the flight?”

  Olivier studiously ignored me after that. But what he didn’t know was that, as a younger sister, I’d learned how to annoy my brother until he cried uncle ages ago. I tossed paper balls at Olivier. When that didn’t make him look at me, I just kept repeating over and over again, “Hey, Prince. Hey. Prince. Prince. Hey. Prince. Olivier. Prince, Prince, Prince—”

  “Will you fucking stop?” Olivier exploded. He nearly burst from his seat, which resulted in him elbowing Big Guy right in the ribs.

  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 oth
er 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 to get their head chopped off?)

  The royal family did not have a dungeon where they tortured political rivals. (So Olivier claimed…)

  He really didn’t appreciate my joke about his crown jewels.

  “Wow,” was all I said after he’d given me the rundown. “So does that mean you’re rich?”

  “What a gauche question.” He looked genuinely offended.

  “I’m American. We’re all gauche.” I said this as I popped the last bite of brioche into my mouth and sighed happily.

  “I’ve always heard Americans love to talk about money.”

  “We do love money, guns, and freedom. I can practically hear a bald eagle soaring overhead as I say that.”

  Olivier sipped his tea. “If you really want to know, I’m not rich, but I do receive an allowance as a member of the royal family.”

  “That was a lot of words to say that you’re loaded.”

  He scowled. “I’m not discussing this. It’s not relevant.”

  Considering his “not-rich” state was what was paying for us to travel around Europe, I was skeptical of this claim. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was now gallivanting in Paris with a Royal Prince of Salasia. How quaint!

  I desperately wanted to text Rachel about all of this. She’d die when I told her. She’d always been obsessed with the British Royal Family. She’d gotten up at the crack of dawn to watch Prince William marry Kate Middleton and had sighed over her wedding dress for way too long.

  Honestly, I hadn’t understood what all the fuss was about. They were just figureheads. They wielded zero political power. They just had a lot of money and land, and they were hanging onto an obsolete system by the skin of their teeth. What was to admire?

  Olivier continued to sip his tea. Never once had he eaten with his mouth open; he’d lay his knife down between individual bites of his meal. He dabbed his lips with his cloth napkin with such finesse that I felt like a bit of an ogre in comparison. I probably could’ve at least attempted to act civilized, but his expression of amazement/disgust at my eating so much was honestly so hilarious that I hadn’t been able to help from trolling him further.

  Then he said, “You don’t seem impressed.”

  “With what?” I’d been staring into my empty cup of coffee, wondering if three lattes in a row would kill me.

  “With me. With what I told you.”

  I laughed. “Why should I be impressed? You didn’t do anything besides get lucky when you were born.”

  “True. But most people tend to look upon royals with a bit more awe than you’re currently exhibiting.”

  “I’m an American. We don’t care about royals.”

  Olivier snorted. “Ridiculous. You lot are way more obsessed with the British royals than anyone in Britain.”

  Okay, he had me there. “Well, if you want me to scrape and bow and drool over you, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “I never asked for drooling.” His tone was wry. He fell silent again, studying me. I felt a bit like a bug under a microscope.

  Had he really never met someone who didn’t care about his title? “Is there something on my face?” I said finally.

  “No,” was all he said.

  But his gray eyes didn’t leave my face for way too long. It was to the point that I muttered about going to the bathroom and hurried away. My heart was pounding in my chest, my cheeks flushed.

  Why did this handsome jerkface get me so flustered? After peeing, I washed my hands with vigor. “Don’t let him intimidate you,” I said to myself. I splashed some cold water on my cheeks. The last thing I needed was Olivier to see that I was blushing like a teenage girl.

  On my way back to our table, a woman stopped me, speaking in French.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

  She switched to accented English effortlessly. “Are you dating Prince Olivier?”

  I looked over at Olivier, and there was already a small crowd around him, all of whom were young women. Oh, great.

  “Um, no,” I said. “We’re just…” My brain tried to scramble for some reasonable explanation. “Working together.”

  “Oh, that makes more sense,” she said. She hurried off to catch Olivier’s attention before I could say something snarky.

  I returned to the table, and I had to almost elbow the young women out of the way just to get my suitcase and bag. I rolled my eyes at Olivier. “Seriously?” I said.

  He was standing already and ignored my remark. The girls spoke to him in French, and as I couldn’t understand anything any of them were saying, I placed some euros down and headed outside to wait for him.

  I was tapping my foot with impatience when he finally joined me. I glared at him. “Seriously?” I repeated.

  “Do you have a question?” was his overly calm rejoinder.

  Okay, I didn’t. I was just annoyed at that woman thinking there was no way Olivier would ever date me. Because of course I wanted him to want to date me, even though I didn’t want to date him. Yeah, made sense. Niamh, you dingus.

  “It’s nothing,” I said in irritation. “Let’s go check into the hotel.”

  “You seem annoyed.”

  The sun was way too hot right now. I could feel my lower back getting damp, beads of sweat forming on my upper lip. I wiped at the moisture. God, the last thing I needed was to get pit stains right now.

  “I’m not annoyed,” I replied.

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “I do not.”

  “You sound as though seeing all those women surround me made you unhappy.”

  Oh, he was needling me, all right. I gritted my teeth. “If you want to know, my stomach hurts from eating so much. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Hmm.”

  I glanced up at him, even more irritated to see that he seemed incapable of sweating despite the heat and dragging his suitcase behind him. His shirt collar was open, exposing golden skin. His clavicle looked so lickable that I nearly tripped over a sidewalk crack thinking about it.

  “I don’t care if you don’t believe me,” I said, my voice taut. “That’s your issue, not mine.”

  “Do you know what your issue is? You’re so determined to seem like you don’t care about me that you become…” He paused. “What is the word?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, deadpan.

  Olivier said, “Sanctimonious. That’s the word.”

 
My jaw dropped. “Sanctimonious? The hell I am.”

  “I knew disclosing my identity to you would make things awkward.” He sounded genuinely frustrated. “You now find me intimidating, but instead of admitting as much, you’re now lashing out at me.”

  Good lord, I did not need this psychobabble, no matter how accurate it might be. Stopping, I turned to look him in the face. “I don’t find you intimidating. What I find annoying is that we keep getting delayed in our objective because you constantly have groupies coming around to ask for your autograph like you’re Harry Styles or something.”

  “Who?”

  “One Direction? Never mind. It’s not important.” We’d finally arrived at the hotel, thank God. I was sweating like crazy, and I was probably bright red from the exertion. Although I didn’t have red hair, I did have the complexion of a redhead. I blamed my da for that one.

  When we checked in, the man at the front desk spoke just to Olivier while I waited. It was only when we went to the elevator and I asked for my key that Olivier said, “We’re in the same room.”

  “What? We agreed to separate rooms.”

  “They only booked us for one, and there isn’t another one available.” Olivier handed me a second key. When I didn’t take it, he added, “There are two beds, sweetheart. I promise not to compromise you.”

  I took the key with a low growl. “Fine. Great. We’ll stay in the same room.”

  Because my life was apparently one big joke, when we opened our door, I saw a grand total of one bed. It was a king-sized bed, but still.

  “I’ll call for a rollaway bed,” I said.

  He lifted one eyebrow. “The bed is big enough for three people. We can share.”

  I really, really did not want to share a bed with this arrogant prince, and I really, really, did not want to admit it was because a part of me wanted to grab him and ravish him. He said I wouldn’t have to worry about him getting handsy? Joke was on him, because apparently, I was the one lacking in self-control.

  When I sat down on the bed, I had to admit, it was comfortable. The thought of having to sleep on a hard rollaway bed did not interest me. I waited for Olivier to play the gallant prince and volunteer to sleep on the rollaway, but no. He merely placed his suitcase on top of the one stand we had and said that he was going to shower.