The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1), Iris Morland [best reads of all time TXT] 📗

had barely been able to sleep last night after my bizarre conversation with Olivier. I was almost halfway convinced I’d dreamed the entire thing. Yet as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and put on some pants and a sweater, I knew I hadn’t dreamed it at all.

I hurried down to the kitchen. Not just because I desperately needed coffee, but because I needed information. The kitchen was already bustling when I entered. A few people glanced at me, but no one stopped me from coming inside. At this point, the staff knew who I was and either ignored me or occasionally inquired if I needed anything.

I looked for red hair, my stomach sinking when I couldn’t find Cara. Instead, Mrs. Walsh stepped out from a walk-in fridge, a hand cocked on her hip. “May I help you, miss?” she said, all crispness.

I had to admit, I was impressed at how perfectly ironed her apron was this early and how tightly she’d rolled her hair into a bun. My own hairline winced in pain just looking at it.

“Is Cara here?” I asked.

“It’s her day off.” Mrs. Walsh stepped around me, which only served to remind me that I was only in the way. When I didn’t leave, she asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Um.” How did I start? Putting my shoulders back, refusing to act like I was wasting her time, I said, “Do you know an employee here named Olivier?”

Mrs. Walsh frowned. “Olivier? Do you mean Oliver?”

“No, Olivier. The French version, I think.”

Mrs. Walsh’s nose crinkled. “No, I can’t say that there’s anyone here who’s French. Not all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides, a Frenchman would freeze in these parts. Always complaining about the cold, are they.” Based on her tone, she seemed to take those complaints about the damp Irish weather personally.

“He’s a landscaper. I met him the first day I arrived,” I said. “I think he’s new?”

“A landscaper? You must be mistaken, miss. The only landscaper we have is Jamie, who’s been here longer even than I have.” Mrs. Walsh began to gather ingredients to bake some kind of pastry. She began mixing sugar with some butter, beating the mixture with vigor. “Jamie sometimes hires outside help for the spring and summer months, but they wouldn’t be French, or English, for that matter.”

I couldn’t comment on how common it was for someone from France to go work menial labor in Ireland, but I believed Mrs. Walsh. So that meant that nobody knew who Olivier was…which made me wonder—had he even been hired? Or had he just been posing as a worker to gain access to the estate?

I grabbed something to eat and headed back upstairs after thanking Mrs. Walsh, who kept looking at me with suspicion. I went straight to the library, where I waited for Olivier to arrive.

When it was close to eleven in the morning, I was almost convinced that he’d run off. It was a quarter past eleven when he finally waltzed into the library, looking both rumpled and deliciously handsome, the sunlight pouring from the windows giving him an angelic glow.

“Good morning,” he said. He raised a paper cup of coffee to his lips. When he saw me frowning, he added, “Bad night?”

“It’s nearly noon,” I ground out.

He glanced at a clock on the wall. “It’s not yet half past eleven.”

“It’s barely the morning. You said we’d meet in the morning.”

He shrugged and settled into the same chair he’d occupied last night. “I never get up before ten AM if I can help it.” He peered closely at me. “You do have rather large bags under your eyes. It must’ve been a bad night for you. Did the thought of me keep you up all night?”

“The thought of how I’m going to dismember you slowly did,” I said sweetly.

Olivier just sipped his coffee. He’d obviously been awake long enough to go into the nearest town to grab coffee, which grated on me. Not that he should’ve brought me something. No, it meant he hadn’t felt like this meeting was very important. That he didn’t see me as important.

Don’t get all weird about him, I said to myself. He’s only trying to bait you.

“If it makes you feel better,” said Olivier smoothly, crossing his legs, “I was awake early to think about the position we’ve found ourselves in. We both want the same thing. We both most likely have information the other wants.”

I nodded. “I think we established all of that last night.”

“The thing is, I was led to believe that your grandfather had this clock. That information must’ve been wrong.” Olivier scowled. “Or perhaps it was just old information. Who can know? But I’m at somewhat of a dead end.”

My palms were sweaty as I said, “I have documentation that shows that my father, not my grandda, is actually the owner of the clock right now.”

Olivier blinked in surprise. “Your father?”

“Yes.” I handed over the papers Mr. McDonnell had given me. “But for whatever reason, my father had these sent to the estate here.”

Olivier’s eyes narrowed. “It’s signed Sean Gallagher. That’s your grandfather, the name I was given. Is that also your father’s name?”

“Yes, kind of. But he never went by it. His full name is Sean Connor Gallagher, but he always went by Connor. As far as I know, he never signed as Sean to avoid confusion with his da. Except in this case.”

“I’ll be damned. I had the wrong man but the right name all along.” He returned the papers to me. “Where is your father? Is he alive?”

“That’s where things get dicey. I don’t know where my da is. I’ve actually never met him. I thought he was dead for most of my life, but it was only recently I was informed he was still alive.” I could feel nerves making me shaky—with fear? Excitement? Maybe both.

“And your father is the one that has my family’s clock.” Olivier leaned back