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

lag,” I muttered to myself. I’d even taken a Benadryl, but all it had done was make me feel fuzzy-headed. Gulping down a glass of water, I went to sit in front of the fireplace—no fire, it was the middle of summer, after all—and after turning on a light, tried to read a book.

But my brain kept bouncing from subject to subject. After I’d encountered Golden Man, I’d met with Mr. McDonnell.

Months ago, Mr. McDonnell had written me a letter to inform me that Grandda had left me more than just the inheritance that had paid for my college education. When I’d written back via email, because this was the twenty-first century after all, Mr. McDonnell had sent his reply once again on actual paper.

I didn’t understand his drive to waste money on postage, but perhaps he had more trust for the postal systems of Ireland and the United States than he did his internet provider.

At any rate, he’d told me that if I were to receive this inheritance, I’d have to come to Ireland myself to claim it. It had been your grandfather’s wish for you to do so, Mr. McDonnell had written in curling script.

Oh, had I mentioned he’d handwritten those letters? I was half-convinced he’d walked straight out of an Austen novel.

Apparently, according to Mr. McDonnell, my grandda had been an odd sort, and this had been his last demand before he’d died. Considering that he’d died four years ago, it had seemed odd to me that I’d only gotten this missive earlier this year.

I closed the book I was failing to read. Even the smuttiest of smut couldn’t hold my attention tonight. Getting up, I went to the window of my expansive bedroom. The window overlooked the stairs and, just on the horizon, the black waters of the Irish Sea. The moon was silvery white, full and shining on the waters like a beacon.

The meeting with Mr. McDonnell had been short. He’d only needed to inform me that my additional inheritance was, in fact, the entire estate. Yes, really.

“Are you serious?” I’d stared at the lawyer in confusion, hardly believing his last words.

“Yes, miss.” Mr. McDonnell had cleared his throat. “But there’s a complication, you see.”

“Oh, lovely.”

He’d ignored my sarcasm. “You see, your grandfather was…an interesting sort of man.” He pulled out an envelope, much like the one I’d received from Mr. McDonnell all those months ago. “Well, he can explain himself better than I can.”

Frowning, I ripped open the envelope, unfolding the thick parchment.

To my granddaughter,

By now, you must’ve met with Mr. McDonnell in person. He most likely has now given you this letter because he’s incapable of explaining things himself. He’s a useful sort but not clever. 

Let’s not waste time. I hardly have any left, to be sure.

Your father is alive, and before you ask, I’ve always known he was alive. I didn’t inform you of this fact because, quite frankly, I doubted that it mattered. A more useless, moronic individual than your father I’ve never known. He threw away everything to marry your mother and then decided he’d had enough and abandoned his entire family. Why, you may ask? I don’t know, nor do I particularly care, either.

This letter is to tell you that, as my only heir that is worth a bloody damn (your fool brother squandered the opportunity to inherit years ago, as you’re well aware), you can inherit this estate and everything inside of it if you find your father and give him a letter Mr. McDonnell will provide to you after you read this one.

I’m sure you’re wondering: where is my godforsaken son? I don’t know. I wasn’t able to discover his location before my illness made me unable to do anything but pray to God that I wouldn’t spend all eternity in Purgatory. Now it’s up to you, Granddaughter. If you’re at all clever and capable, you can find your father. If you cannot find him, then suffice to say this estate will go up for auction and most likely bought by some English arsehole looking for a summer home for his sallow-faced children.

Yours,

Sean Gallagher

If the ground had dropped out from under me before, I was now hurtling into a black hole into space. Hope, along with dismay, made it impossible to speak.

Da was alive. He was alive, and Grandda had known.

I wish I could strangle you myself, I thought bitterly. No wonder Liam hated your guts. You wily old asshole. Even from beyond the grave, you’re trying to mess with us.

I stared dumbly down at the paper in my hand for such a long time that Mr. McDonnell finally cleared his throat to get my attention.

“Are you quite well, Miss Gallagher?”

“My da is alive?” was all that I could say.

“Indeed. You haven’t been in contact with him in a number of years. Is that correct?”

I shook my head. “He left us before I was even born.”

Mr. McDonnell shuffled some papers, looking extremely uncomfortable.

I barely registered his discomfort. My heart was clamoring in my chest. I wanted to ask every question under the sun, all the while knowing that it was unlikely this lawyer would have the answers. I doubted Mr. McDonnell could tell me why my da had abandoned his family and had never tried to contact us again.

While Liam had been content to believe our da was six feet under, I’d never stopped wondering about him. We only had a handful of photos of him; Liam had torn up a bunch of them when he’d been an angry teenager, never thinking that his little sister might have an interest in our deadbeat father.

Since Mam had died when I’d been so young, I’d always longed to know about Da. The thought that I still had one parent alive was strangely comforting. And, in that hope that only a child could have, maybe he’d have a reason as to why he’d had to stay away from us.

Now as an adult, I knew very well that it was pretty