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

unbuttoned his collar, his collarbone visible. I’d never found collarbones attractive, but here we were.

Some impulse made me stand on my tiptoes. I raised myself up, about to kiss him, when he stepped back. I reared backward, feeling like he’d slapped me.

“Niamh,” he said gruffly. “Um—”

I wanted to melt into a humiliated puddle right then and there. “No, don’t. I’m an idiot.” I grabbed my phone and stuffed my feet into my shoes. “Forget it. A momentary lapse in sanity.”

“Niamh—”

I didn’t wait to hear his excuses. If I did, I would’ve started crying, and who wanted to cry in front of a prince?

Nobody, that’s who.

I wandered the streets of Paris, completely unsure where I should go. Mostly I’d just wanted to get away from Olivier.

I decided on going to one of the many bars near our hotel. This one looked like something straight out of the 1920s.

The female bartenders wore flapper dresses with headbands, while the male bartenders had on trousers, white collared shirts, and suspenders with bolero hats. The interior was decorated with all kinds of colorful glass bottles, the lights over the bar in a semi-circle that made it seem almost like a stage.

The bar was full of people, the sound of French moving around me in waves. I wandered to the bar, suddenly wishing I spoke French, mostly so I wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb. After glancing at the menu, I ordered a cocktail called the Green Fairy. Hey, I needed something to make me feel better, okay?

The drink was sweet, fruity, and so delicious that I drank it way too quickly. It was also extremely strong. After just one drink, I felt delightfully buzzed. I ordered another.

As my buzz increased to tipsiness to full-on drunk, the amount of men hitting on me increased as well.

The first one, a Spaniard, had bought me my second drink, his white teeth flashing in the dim light. He was absurdly handsome, his accent was absurdly attractive, and even when he placed his hand on my lower back, I felt a grand total of nothing.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked me.

I wished I wanted to say yes. Olivier’s face, and then the way he’d looked after I’d tried to kiss him, flashed in my mind. At this point, I’d had more than enough alcohol to make very bad decisions.

“Not yet,” I finally said, smiling. “I want another drink.”

“Of course.” The Spaniard—had he told me his name?—waved at the bartender and ordered for me.

Olivier had a right to say no to me. I told myself that, but it didn’t make me feel better. It only made the rejection sting all the fiercer. And then a swell of bitterness filled me, because he’d definitely flirted with me since we’d met. He’d touched me—my face, my hair—and he’d looked like he’d wanted me, too.

I wasn’t so naive that I couldn’t tell when a man wanted me. Like right now: the Spaniard’s wayward hand was coasting up my leg. Goodness, if he kept going, he’d have his hand cupping my crotch.

I considered reacting, but I was way too sloshed to care. Besides, at least one man wanted me.

Even as the Spaniard pressed his advances, a Frenchman joined our little tete-a-tete. He said something deliciously sexy in French, to which I laughed and said I didn’t speak French, sorry, but it had sounded nice.

“Is this man, is he bothering you?” Frenchman asked. He had the jawline of a marble statue. It was ridiculous.

I glanced at the Spaniard, who hadn’t moved his hand. I shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed the free drinks.”

That made both men laugh. Suddenly, I found myself with men all around me, flirting, buying me more drinks, telling me all about where they were from and asking me about the U.S.

I felt powerful. I felt like the sexiest woman in the entire world.

Until the Spaniard, drunk now, too, cupped my breast and breathed into my ear, “Let’s go, yes?”

I pushed his hand away and got down from my stool, only to almost fall to floor. Great, I was really drunk. “No boob touching,” I said sternly. “I did not authorize that.”

“Niamh.”

I turned, so quickly that I saw stars. I had to grab onto the edge of the bar to keep from falling on my face.

There was Olivier, his face red, his hands clenched into fists. Great, what had he seen? Had he seen the boob grab? Now I felt gross.

“Oh, it’s you,” I said. I lurched toward Olivier. “You found me.”

Olivier’s expression was hard. Harder than I’d ever seen it. “You’re drunk.”

“How can you tell?” I burst out laughing. I had to grab onto his arm soon after.

“Let’s go.”

Olivier grabbed my arm. He nearly hauled me from the bar, but not before the Spaniard tried to stop him.

“Who the hell are you? She doesn’t want to go with you,” said the Spaniard.

Olivier gave the Spaniard a look that you could only call terrifying. It was like the spirit of the haughtiest, richest asshole came upon him and he used all of that power to simply look at the Spaniard like he was a bug beneath his princely shoe.

“We’re going,” repeated Olivier, his hand still on my arm.

For my part, I was irritated at being treated like some doll. I loosened Olivier’s grip on my arm. “I don’t want to leave.”

“See,” said the Spaniard.

Olivier growled. “Stay out of this.”

We were attracting attention. The Frenchman who’d also been flirting with me was watching closely, while I could see one of the bartenders tapping something into his phone.

“Shit, come on.” I was the one who grabbed Olivier. I wasn’t about to get us arrested, especially in a foreign country.

I stumbled through the bar, and Olivier had to help me out the door. I would’ve been embarrassed, but the nice thing about booze was that you didn’t have to feel embarrassed over nearly falling face-first into some strange woman’s lap because you could barely stay upright.

“How drunk are you?” Olivier pulled me into