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

“What if there’s no room at the inn?” I quipped.

“Then I’ll deal with that, too.”

I suddenly had the urge to mess up his hair, to make his cheeks turn red, to see him as upended inside as I was. He moved through the world with so much confidence that sometimes I wondered if he were truly human. I both admired it but, like right now, hated it.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” I said. I was pleased that my voice didn’t waver at all.

Chapter Fifteen

We arrived at the address we’d received from Jeanne early the next morning. After meeting in the lobby, Olivier had been polite but distant. It still snagged at my heart, but I forced myself to put it behind me.

We had more important things to deal with. Like finding this stupid clock and my father. Then again, if he knew the effort I was putting into finding him, he’d probably think it was hilarious. I hadn’t known him, of course, but based on what Liam had told me, Connor Gallagher hadn’t taken many things seriously. Including his family.

The store was located five miles from our hotel, in the northern part of Berlin. It was a nondescript storefront, except for the creepy mannequins in the window.

One wore a dress straight out of the fifties, a lacy apron tied in the front, while the other mannequin wore a suit that had shoulder pads so large that it looked like a linebacker. Furniture from various eras—leather couches, stuffed velvet chairs, and mod-style tables—were just a few of the items as we stepped inside.

It smelled musty, the lighting garish, but it was filled with people. The walls and the floor were covered with items: vases, furniture, rugs, lamps, dolls, books. I smiled when I found a stack of vintage Harlequin novels on one table. I flipped through one, considering buying it, when Olivier said, “I want to find the owner.”

I followed Olivier into the depths of the store. It was a total maze, and I wasn’t entirely certain we could find our way back to the entrance.

“Wait, do you speak German?” I said to Olivier. I hadn’t even thought to ask him, since I’d gotten so used to him speaking French while we were in Paris.

“Only a little,” he admitted.

“What languages do you speak fluently? Besides English and French?”

“Italian, some Spanish. I’d taken German lessons but had never committed myself to learning. A smattering of Russian, as well, but that’s a very difficult language to learn if you aren’t a native.”

I smiled wryly. “Oh, I’m sure.” I tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

“Do you speak Gaelic?” He weaved his way around a glass table as he spoke.

“Only a little. My older brother speaks it, although he says he’s forgotten much of it. I only lived in Ireland until I was six.”

“That’s a shame. You should try to learn it.”

“If I end up staying in Ireland longer term, then I will, definitely. I wanted to get to know my father’s side of the family better.”

After inquiring about the owner at one of the handful of checkout areas, we waited for this mysterious person to arrive. Although the employee had said it wouldn’t be long, Olivier and I found ourselves waiting for close to twenty minutes.

“Aren’t Germans a punctual type of people?” I said. “Unlike the French,” I couldn’t help but adding.

“Spaniards are much worse at being on time. So are the Italians,” replied Olivier. “The French would be in the middle, I believe.”

Finally, when the owner came to speak with us, I was about to fall asleep in a very comfortable leather recliner. The owner, a short man with a well-trimmed beard and wearing a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, said in English, “You were wanting to speak with me?”

Olivier rose. “Yes. I apologize that we didn’t make an appointment. We weren’t able to find a phone number to call ahead.”

“Oh, the internet never has it listed right.” He put out his hand. “I’m Stefan Bauer. Nice to meet you.”

I shook hands with Stefan before he escorted us to his office in the back of the shop. We had to step over a number of items, the hallway packed with even more things. If Stefan weren’t the owner of an antiques store, I would’ve assumed he was just a hoarder.

Stefan’s office was more a closet with an ancient computer and even more ancient furniture. I nearly sneezed as dust rose up from the chair I sat on.

“Now,” said Stefan briskly, “how can I help you?”

Olivier explained our story, how we’d gotten Stefan’s name from Jeanne. Stefan listened, not asking any questions but simply nodding. I interjected where necessary. I didn’t want him to think I was some bimbo who couldn’t speak for herself.

“So you see, we think you might’ve sold this clock to my da,” I said as I handed Stefan the documents. “His name is Sean Connor Gallagher. I believe it was your store that mailed the documents to my grandda’s estate in Dublin.”

Stefan stroked his chin. “Ah, yes. I remember this. It was a strange request. The buyer didn’t want his purchase to be traced to my store.” Stefan wrinkled his nose. “Insulting, like I was dealing with black market goods.”

“Oh, I’m sure you aren’t,” I said quickly.

Stefan leaned back into his chair. “You’re correct, young lady. Everything I purchase and sell is always above board. I’ll admit, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d sell the clock to this person—your father, I presume? It made me suspicious that Durand had sold me a stolen antique. But I’d known Durand for two decades, God rest his soul.”

“His widow, Jeanne, provided us with your information,” said Olivier.

“Indeed, indeed.” Typing on his keyboard now, Stefan said nothing for close to five minutes as he searched his computer. I half-expected him to pull out a floppy disk and hand it to us. I