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

“There’s a cafe on board. Third car, if you want anything.”

“Okay.”

Silence fell. I sipped my tea, gazing at Olivier out of the corner of my eye. He had circles under his eyes. Had he not slept, either? Guilt assailed me. I’d been kind of a jerkface to him last night.

“Hey,” I said, my voice croaking. I cleared my throat. “Um, last night. I’m sorry about that. I really hadn’t planned on drinking that much.”

His expression was shuttered. “It’s fine.” And then he returned to looking at his phone screen, effectively ignoring me.

Fine, I could get that message. He didn’t want to talk about the kiss. He wanted to act like it hadn’t happened. Although my pride smarted, I knew that it was probably for the best. After we’d found my da and the clock, we’d go our separate ways. I knew that, but it hurt.

Had we become friends in the last week together? I’d certainly gotten to see more of Olivier than just the golden-haired, arrogant prince I’d first met in Dublin. And despite him not wanting to talk about our kiss, I knew that he’d felt the chemistry between us just as much as I had. He could deny it all he wanted, but that didn’t make it untrue.

Once again, I wondered if we shouldn’t just get each other out of our systems, have some hot, sweaty sex and then move on with our lives.

You think you can do that without getting your heart involved? I asked myself cynically.

Fine, I didn’t know. Olivier was different than the other guys I’d had flings with. He was…complex. Frustrating. Beautiful.

Princely.

Sunlight gleamed in his hair as he tapped on his phone, producing a halo-like effect. Even with the dark circles under his eyes and the hint of a beard on his cheeks, he had a dignity about him that made me wonder if it was innate or something instilled into people who were born to roles like he had been.

He glanced up at me. “Yes?”

I looked out the window at the passing countryside. “Nothing.”

Olivier returned to his phone, but as I gazed out the window, I could see the reflection of his phone screen in the glass. To my amusement, he was just endlessly scrolling through his calendar. He wasn’t adding appointments or opening scheduled appointments. Based on the glazed expression on his face, he was lost in thought.

Right then, his phone rang. I wasn’t able to catch the name on his phone before Olivier rose, answered it, and walked away to find some privacy. The irony was that he was speaking in French, so it wasn’t like I would’ve understood the conversation, anyway.

After about ten minutes, Olivier still gone, I got up to find the cafe. My hangover had transformed into being borderline hangry. I made my way to the third car, which was three cars from where we’d taken our seats. The train itself was slick and clearly fairly new. As I walked, I heard smatterings of French, Italian, and German, along with some English.

Outside, the French countryside passed in quick succession. According to Olivier, we’d stop in Frankfurt, Germany, and transfer to another train to finish our journey to Berlin. Along the way to Frankfurt, though, the train would make a handful of stops along its route.

After I’d gotten lunch and probably way too many snacks, I continued exploring the train. It was two floors, with the cafe on the first floor. I meandered down the cars when I heard Olivier’s voice. He was tucked into a little nook close to where the two cars were connected. His tone sounded frustrated, and yeah, I’d admit that I stopped and listened for a long moment.

To my surprise, Olivier said in English, “Don’t worry about her,” before he returned to French. I strained, hoping he’d revert to English again, but despite a few random English words that made no sense without context, I couldn’t make anything else out.

I turned to go back up the stairs at the front of the car, but I was so distracted that I didn’t see someone walking toward me. I ran smack-dab into a woman, who let out a loud noise of consternation when I accidentally trod on her foot.

“I’m so sorry!” I said as the poor woman lurched toward an open seat. “Are you okay?”

“Do I seem okay?” she said in a heavy accent. “Did you not see me?”

“No, sorry, um, I can get you some ice—”

The commotion caused a few other people to come around to see what was going on. By the time I’d apologized at least a thousand times, the woman finally telling me she’d be okay, I’d nearly forgotten about Olivier. Until I returned to our seats and he was sitting there, waiting for me, a look on his face that said, “I know you overheard my conversation I’d not wanted you to hear.”

Great. Just my fucking luck.

“Want some cookies?” I pulled out the bag, but Olivier didn’t take my bribe.

“Were you following me?”

I sat down with a huff. “No. I was getting food and exploring. I just happened to run into you.”

“How much did you hear?”

I couldn’t make out what he was thinking. His face was blank. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t happy, either. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

“Even if you’d sat here the entire time, I wouldn’t have understood what you were saying, anyway.”

He looked triumphant. “So you were eavesdropping.”

I bit into one of the cookies that was filled with chocolate and was promptly distracted because it was amazing. I ate another in quick succession.

“So I was eavesdropping on a conversation in a language I can’t speak or understand.” I shrugged. “I really don’t think that counts as ‘eavesdropping,’ do you?”

Olivier still seemed tense. Because I was a glutton for punishment and was insatiably curious, I couldn’t help but ask, “Who were you talking to?”

I really didn’t think he’d answer the question. But to my surprise, he said, “My father.”

Now, this