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

least not at the moment.” I tied the laces overly tightly, my foot protesting. I unloosed them and tried again.

“But you don’t want to tell your brother about us.”

“No, I don’t. He’s overprotective, and he’ll just throw a hissy fit, and who has time for that? No, it’s better he doesn’t know.”

“What happens if you find your father? I’m assuming he’s your brother’s father as well.”

Okay, I hadn’t thought about that important point. I’d pushed it away, because there was no guarantee we would find my da. But if we did, well, I’d figure that part out later.

“I’m doing this for me, not Liam. Liam hates our da. He probably wouldn’t want to see him, anyway.”

Olivier had sat down in a chair and crossed his ankles, like he had nowhere to be. “Your brother cares about you,” he said.

“Um. Is that a question?”

His gaze turned faraway, like I wasn’t even in the room anymore. “I always wished I’d had a sibling. It’s lonely, being the only child. And my parents always had their duties to occupy them.”

“My mom is dead. My da might as well have been.” I didn’t mean the words to sound bitter; it was simply a statement of fact. But Olivier grimaced anyway.

“Yes, I realize this.” He rose. “I didn’t mean to sound as though I were fishing for sympathy. My apologies.”

Well, now I felt like a gigantic asshole. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just…” I struggled to explain. “Just that at least you can still talk to your parents, see them, ask them questions. I don’t even know if my da really is alive. For most of my entire life, both of my parents have been dead, you know? It was just me and Liam.”

“You’re lucky.” Olivier’s voice was soft. “To have someone like your brother, who cares for you so much. I’d give anything…” He trailed off. “Never mind. We need to plan for our trip tomorrow. Let’s get dinner and discuss it.”

I followed Olivier out of the hotel into a taxi, not caring where we were going. My mind was whirling, though. It was one of the first times I’d seen Olivier vulnerable.

Had he been ignored by his parents as a child? Given off to a nanny while his parents had their own lives? If so, I could imagine it had been a very lonely way to grow up. Although I’d felt abandoned when Liam had asked our aunt and uncle to raise me, I’d always known he’d done it out of love. And he’d been in his early twenties—my age. He hadn’t been capable of raising a young child at that age, and I could relate. I could barely keep myself together, let alone think about a kid.

But I’d always known Liam loved me. I’d known Mam had loved me, that Aunt Siobhan and Uncle Henry had, too. Had Olivier ever felt that? Or had his parents’ love been frigid, kept at arm’s length, while he was raised to be this golden prince who wasn’t allowed to be human?

You’re more than some arrogant rich boy, aren’t you? I thought. I gazed at him as he watched raindrops patter against the taxi window, and I knew that that thought alone was very, very dangerous.

Chapter Twelve

The drive to Jeanne Durand’s home took longer than either of us expected. Despite only being a few miles outside of Paris, the traffic crawled at the slowest possible pace. By the time we’d left the city, we were both hungry for lunch and had stupidly not packed anything to eat. I’d almost asked our taxi driver if he had any food, but I hadn’t yet gotten that desperate.

When we arrived at our destination, Olivier paid the driver and headed straight for the front door. As for me, I was enjoying taking in the beauty of the French countryside. The address was a little cottage that looked like it had been built centuries ago, although for all I knew it had been built within the twenty-first century. A lovely little garden took us down a path to the front door of the cottage, hanging vines nearly covering the door number.

It was idyllic, straight out of a fairy tale. The bees buzzing, the smell of fresh, blooming flowers, the warm sun. All of it together made me antsy, like an axe murderer was going to jump out of the cottage and run us off of the property. It just seemed way too lovely.

“You look like you’re going to vomit,” said Olivier blandly after he’d knocked on the front door.

“This place is way too cute.”

“And that’s why you’re looking ill?”

“Yes. I don’t trust it.” I glanced over my shoulder. I’d tried to peer inside the window nearest the front door, but a curtain had obscured the view.

“I had no idea you were so paranoid.” He motioned at me. “Get behind me, then. I’ll protect you.”

That line made my paranoia disappear, because the image of Olivier protecting my person from some serial killer was hilarious. Olivier could probably hold his own in some fancy-schmancy fencing match, but I really doubted he could take out somebody with an axe.

I was laughing heartily, Olivier glowering at me, when the front door opened. A middle-aged woman with dark hair in a messy bun asked something in French. Olivier asked if she was Jeanne Durand, and the woman, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

“Do you speak English?” asked Olivier. He gestured at me. “My companion doesn’t speak French, I’m afraid.”

“A little bit,” Jeanne said in a heavy accent. “Are you American?” she asked me.

“Guilty as charged.”

At Jeanne’s confused expression, Olivier translated into French. She nodded, and after wiping her hands on her apron, she gestured us inside.

“Come, come, have some coffee. We will speak,” she said briskly.

Despite the dim light inside Jeanne’s cottage, I could make out what could only be dozens of antiques: vases, bowls, statues, clocks. Artwork hung from the walls, while the furniture was heavy and old-fashioned but beautiful. I couldn’t help