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

the alley in between the bar and another restaurant. The streetlamp overhead illuminated his face. “Do you even care how much danger you put yourself in?”

I burst out laughing. “Danger? Dude, I’m drunk and was having a good time. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened yet. Those men were practically slavering like dogs over you. One of them could’ve easily gotten you to go with them—”

“And what? We’d have had drunken sex? Oh no, call the police. Sounds terrible.”

Olivier’s face turned red. “You are the most stubborn, idiotic woman—”

I scoffed. “Like you’ve never gone to a bar, gotten wasted, and flirted with women. Come the fuck on, Olivier. You’re just mad because…” I racked my brain. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re mad. You’re throwing a fit because, what, I went off on my own? I’m an adult. I can go to a bar and drink my brains out if I want to.”

Olivier looked fit to be tied. I’d never seen him this riled. If I’d had less alcohol in my veins, I might’ve tried to figure out why he was so upset. Or maybe the answer would’ve been a bit more obvious.

But as it was, I wasn’t that astute in my inebriated state. I peered up at him. “Why are you so mad?” I wondered aloud.

He pushed his fingers through his hair roughly. “I don’t want something to happen to you.”

At that, my heart warmed, until he continued with, “I need you to get the clock returned to my family.”

I deflated like a balloon. Pop. I was only useful to him. Ugh, I hated him. I wanted to go sic all those men who’d been flirting with me to beat him up.

“You know what?” I poked him in the chest. “I don’t need this right now. You already humiliated me earlier, and now you’re just here to remind me that I’m just a useful tool for you and not that you really give a shit about my safety. And you can go take a long walk into the Seine and drown for all I care. You suck. You’re a bad person. I hope you get chlamydia.”

To my shock, he yanked me into his arms, his gray eyes dark and stormy. “You’re not just a ‘useful tool.’” His voice was a growl. His fingers bit into my lower back. “Of course I care about you.”

“You think I’m a nuisance and you refuse to kiss me. That’s not exactly a five-star review.” I didn’t care how petulant I sounded.

“You think I’m not attracted to you?” His voice was incredulous. Before I could respond, he tangled one hand in my hair, the other still gripping my waist, and swooped in for a kiss.

I wasn’t prepared for that. Even the embrace hadn’t prepared me for the heat of his lips moving against mine. I was so shocked that I just stood there, frozen, my brain completely at a loss remembering how to kiss.

But Olivier knew. He coaxed my lips apart, his tongue slipping inside my mouth. I sighed. I reached up and held onto him by the shoulders. I felt dizzy. I felt like I could melt into a puddle right here in the middle of a darkened Paris street.

“Niamh,” he gasped, kissing the side of my throat. He said more words in French, the bastard.

But as I was gazing up at the sky, I was just as suddenly lurching away from him. And then I was vomiting right next to his feet and wishing the earth would swallow me up whole.

Kiss a prince—check

Puke on his shoes—check

Die of embarrassment—check, check, check.

Chapter Thirteen

The moment the train left the station in Paris, Olivier rose and said, “I’m going to get some coffee,” and left me to my own devices.

After my drunken shenanigans last night, Olivier had practically carried me back to the hotel. I’d proceeded to puke a second time—thankfully, in a toilet this round—and had eventually fallen into a restless sleep. It had only been upon awakening that I’d realized that I’d forgotten to book the flight for our trip to Berlin.

When I’d informed Olivier, he had said calmly, “I know. I took care of it.”

I’d been simultaneously grateful and annoyed. And I was even more grateful that he’d booked us train tickets instead of a flight, because good lord was I hungover. The thought of being smashed inside a plane for hours was enough to make my stomach lurch.

Besides, according to Olivier, the only available flights would’ve taken about as long as riding the train. I hadn’t had the energy to confirm that tidbit. All I cared about was closing my eyes and trying to work off this hangover.

Oh, and to forget about that whole “kiss and puke on Olivier’s shoes” incident.

He hadn’t mentioned it. As far as we were both concerned, it hadn’t happened. Hell, maybe it really hadn’t happened. Maybe it had just been some drunken dream. But considering that I’d seen Olivier cleaning his shoes this morning in the hotel sink, I really couldn’t deny that it had happened.

I sighed, pressing my fingers to my throbbing temples. “You’re such an idiot,” I muttered to myself. “How could you throw yourself at him?”

Okay, to be fair, he’d kissed me. He’d been the one to grab me, press his mouth to me, and kiss me like a man desperate for my lips. And because I was just that stupid, my heart did a little flip in my chest at the memory.

Olivier didn’t return quickly, and my eyelids were heavy. I dozed off, the motion of the train lulling me to sleep. When I awoke later, it was midday, and Olivier was sitting across from me, sipping coffee and tapping on his phone.

He pointed to a drink next to his own. “I brought you some tea.”

My heart flip-flopped again. Even though the tea was already lukewarm and tasted like not much of anything, the gesture was appreciated.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“How are you feeling?”

“Okay. My head isn’t hurting as much.” I felt my stomach