The moment I woke up after my best friend’s raucous bachelorette party in Las Vegas, I realized two things in quick succession:To my horror, the man had his arm slung across me, and it weighed at least a thousand pounds, I was sure. My bladder yelled profanities at me as I pushed at the ridiculously heavy arm trapping me against the bed.Finally, he turned over, taking his arm with him. I shuffled to the bathroom and didn’t feel the panic hit me until after I’d peed and saw the ring on my left hand.Ring. Left hand. I didn’t wear a ring there anymore since I’d caught my ex-fiancé cheating on me. I’d thrown the ring David had bought me in his face.This ring wasn’t that diamond David had gotten me. I peered more closely at it. It was—plastic? Was it from a ring pop?Did I call the police? No, that was stupid. 911, I got married last night to a stranger. Yeah, that’d go over well. I was sure the Vegas police would just laugh and tell us to get a lawyer.I heard movement in the roo
The Prince I Love to HateThe Princess I Hate to LoveSay You’re MineAll I Ask of YouMake Me YoursHold Me CloseWar of the RosesPetal PluckerHe Loves Me, He Loves Me NotOopsie DaisyincludingThen Came YouTaking a Chance on LoveAll I Want Is YouMy One and OnlyThe Nearness of YouThe Very Thought of YouIf I Can’t Have YouDream a Little Dream of MeSomeone to Watch Over MeTill There Was YouI’ll Be Home for Christmas
A coffee addict and cat lover, USA Today bestselling author Iris Morland writes sparkling, swoon-worthy romances, including the Flower Shop Sisters and the Love Everlasting series.If she's not reading or writing, she enjoys binging on Netflix shows and cooking something delicious.Sign up for my newsletter to stay up-to-date with new releases, sales, and exclusive giveaways! Facebook Twitter BookBub Goodreads Instagram
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.The Princess I Hate to LoveCopyright © 2021 by Iris MorlandPublished by Blue Violet Press LLCSeattle, WashingtonCover design by Qamber DesignsAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
When I imagined my wedding night, I never expected that I’d be standing outside my beloved wife’s bedroom door, pounding on it to let me inside.“You can’t avoid me forever!” I pounded my fist one last time against the expensive wood.“Of course I can. Have you seen this place? It’s fucking huge!”I heard what sounded like rustling. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the door. I’d imagined helping Niamh out of her wedding dress, but here I was, a dog barking at the door to be let in.“Niamh,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “We need to talk.”“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m tired. Go away.”I growled. I jiggled the knob, but it stayed firmly locked. Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see my secretary Arthur Laurent, who was studiously avoiding looking at the locked door.“Would you like me to procure the key from Madam LeRoux, Your Highness?” he asked in French. While I spoke English solely with my American bride, I rarel
Flashbulbs from cameras made me wince. I was standing with my arm around Niamh in front of the royal family’s villa outside the capital, Saint Henri, a group of photographers and journalists having just arrived for a brief interview.Niamh was barely smiling. I leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Look happy.” She widened her smile until she looked demonic.“How are you two enjoying married life?” a woman asked in French.I replied in English, “We’re getting to know each other even better now, which is why we chose to honeymoon here in Saint Henri.”Every time a royal family member vacationed here, the little seaside town’s economy was boosted. Niamh and I wore clothes made from a local designer, and we were scheduled to appear at a popular seafood restaurant later that week.“This place is beautiful,” said Niamh.The journalist kept the microphone near me, which irked me. Although the press was insatiably curious about my new American bride, they also disliked that I’
Two months agoI tossed the tabloid into the nearest trash bin. “This is already a fucking disaster,” I muttered, rubbing my face.Laurent didn’t react to my swearing, except to say, “Anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”“No, nothing. You’ve done everything you could.”Laurent bowed and left me to stew in my office. Once Niamh had agreed to our engagement, after a lot of arguing, swearing, and threats of castrating me, the news of our engagement became the most important topic in the palace. My parents had taken the news with a surprising level of equanimity. I’d expected them to rail against it or to demand that I find someone more suitable.But neither of them had said those things. My mother, ever the polished royal, had merely said, “Then we have a lot of work to do, don’t we?”I’d been naive to think releasing the news of our impromptu engagement would be simple. We’d simply write a press release, do a few interviews, take a few photos, and voila. Done
Present DayWhen Laurent handed me a breakfast tray himself, I said, “What happened?”“Why should anything be amiss? I’m simply serving Your Highness.”I glowered. “Either tell me what’s happened or I’ll throw you in the dungeon.”“I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for tossing me into the wine cellar.” Laurent cleared his throat then gestured at my phone. “It should be in your inbox.”He scurried off before I could open the email. When I clicked the link, it took me to a tabloid story featuring our interview yesterday.Miss Gallagher doesn’t seem to be enjoying royal life, does she? Apparently, there’s no reason to smile when you’re a princess married to the handsome prince! Perhaps the luxury isn’t up to her usual standards. What could be explained as pre-wedding jitters seems to have become acting rather high in the instep.The article, if you could even call it that, continued in a similar vein. My temples started throbbing. Once again, I’d been right: Niamh’s sarcasm wa