The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1) by Iris Morland (book club recommendations txt) 📕

Olivier still hadn’t returned. But since I was still hot from my shower, the robe made me even warmer. I tossed it back into the bathroom and walked nude to my suitcase, my back to the hotel room door.

I was digging around for a fresh pair of panties when I heard the click of the lock. I stood up straight the moment Olivier came inside to see me holding a too-short t-shirt to my naked body.

“Well, this is a pleasant sight,” he said in amusement.

I squawked. I threw my shirt at him, which was stupid because I was now completely uncovered. “Get out of here!” I grabbed the comforter from the bed, but it was tucked in so tightly that I could only get a corner of it free. I wrapped it around my waist, my arm across my breasts. “What are you still doing here?” I demanded.

“Just enjoying the spectacle.” He sat down in a chair. “You Americans are so finnicky about nudity.”

“This isn’t the time to talk about our cultural differences. Get. Out!”

He instead covered his eyes with his hand, sighing heavily. “My eyes are closed. Go about your business.”

I waved a hand in front of his face: no reaction. Scowling, I dressed quickly, my face on fire.

Honestly, I wasn’t that much of a prude or that self-conscious. But having Olivier peruse my body like that had been just beyond embarrassing, especially if he hadn’t been impressed at what he’d seen. Oh God, I wanted to die.

I grabbed my key card and wallet, putting on my shoes. “I’m done,” I said. “I’m going to go get something to eat.”

Before I could run to the ends of the earth, Olivier rose and gently pushed a tendril of damp hair behind my ear. “You’re red as a beet.”

That made me even redder. “Thanks for pointing that out,” I said acidly.

He let his fingers brush against my cheek. He was smiling. “So prickly. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

He took my chin in between his fingers, the touch electric. I froze in his grasp. “Shame you hide that body of yours under those clothes,” he mused.

At that lovely non-compliment, I reared backward. “Wow, thanks. Anyone ever tell you that you’re the least charming prince ever?”

He didn’t seem the least bit ruffled. “Oh no, Niamh, believe me, you’re the first and only. For so many reasons.”

I fled from the room before I could ask him what, exactly, that even met.

Chapter Nine

“I think it might be closed,” I said.

“The windows are boarded up. Of course it’s closed.” Olivier, for his part, kept trying to peer through the small spaces between the wooden boards hammered to the windows. Like he’d be able to see someone inside. But he was so agitated, I wasn’t about to tell him as much.

“Shit,” said Olivier. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I yawned. “Yeah, pretty much.”

We’d taken a taxi across Paris to find this antiques shop, the address of which Olivier had on a small piece of paper in his pocket. Despite both of our attempts to find the address on Google Maps, Google kept trying to redirect us to some random spot that turned out to be a broken-down bridge on the Seine.

So we’d had to wander around on foot. Olivier had stopped to ask for directions—which made me grateful that he spoke French, but I wouldn’t tell him that, no way—but we got a lot of confused expressions. One man told us we were in the wrong part of Paris entirely. Another woman said that we were in the right area but the wrong street.

“Why are the streets here so confusing?” I’d said multiple times.

“Paris is an old city.” He gave me a look that screamed duh. 

“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t mean that they couldn’t have made it slightly less confusing in the last century.”

Olivier snorted. “Have you ever met a Frenchman?”

I’d always thought that was Seattle, with its five-way intersections and random one-way streets was stressful. Paris, though, was a billion times worse.

And by the time we’d found this antiques shop, luck would have it that the shop was no longer a shop. It was just a boarded-up building with some graffiti sprayed across it.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked.

“Yes. Look.” He pointed to a torn awning. He pulled away the cloth to reveal a sign that was barely legible, it was so covered in graffiti. But under the paint, I could make out the store name, Antiquités Durand.

We stood there for a long moment, both of us silently wondering what the hell we were going to do next.

“I’d ask you what we should do next,” I said, “but based on the constipated look on your face, you have no idea.”

Olivier gave me a look of disgust. “I do not have a constipated face.”

I sipped my latte. “If you say so.”

Okay, I was needling him, because I was still embarrassed by him seeing me naked yesterday evening. He hadn’t stopped ribbing me about it until we’d gone to sleep. At that point, I’d threatened to murder him by strangulation with the shower curtain if he wouldn’t shut up.

Oh, and he’d slept on the rollaway bed. I’d forced him after I’d guilt-tripped him for walking in on me naked. He’d whined and moaned about it all morning, accusing me of breaking his back, the big baby.

“We could ask people who work around here. Maybe they know where the guy went,” I said.

“That’s the smartest idea I’ve heard from you since we arrived.”

I flipped him the bird. He just laughed at me.

Despite my smart idea, I couldn’t be of much use in talking to people. Although most people spoke English, Olivier seemed to get more information easily by speaking French. It made sense. Besides, having some random American girl ask you questions about where some antiques owner had gone would seem extra weird. Not that every single French person hated Americans. It was more the overall oddness of it that made people less likely to