Page 21 of Never Too Late

Finn’s indrawn breath was shaky. “You never answered my question about what happens if I say no.”

“I leave you alone,” I said, the words scraping like razor blades in my throat. “I go back to London and you never hear from me again. I’ll think of you, but I won’t contact you. You have my word on that.” I got to a count of twenty before Finn spoke.

“Okay. I’ll spend the weekend with you. No baggage. No grudges. Just me and you.”

Relief had me feeling like I’d grown a foot taller. “I’ll see you at eight tomorrow.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Chapter Eight

My palms were sweaty as I stood in front of Finn’s door. Far sweatier than the first time I’d showed up here when I’d half expected him to slam the door in my face. I might not have known—or understood—his reasons for leaving, but I would have had to be stupid not to realize that I’d fucked up. People didn’t just up and move to another country on a whim. They did it to escape situations they were no longer comfortable with, and make a fresh start. And they weren’t usually keen on the things they’d left behind pursuing them.

In retrospect, Finn slamming the door in my face would have been less painful than his friend’s performance, where I was forced to watch him stick his tongue down Finn’s throat. Someone stabbing me in the chest and twisting the blade would have hurt less. Nothing had been sweeter than the relief I’d felt at discovering it was simply an act.

I ran a hand through my hair to fix any loose strands and took a deep breath before knocking. I was early, but better early than late, and if Finn wasn’t ready, I was happy to wait. Barely a beatpassed before he flung the door open. Our outfits were alike; we both wore blue jeans and jumpers—mine black, his green—with a white pattern—that brought out the color of his eyes. Rather than running an appraising eye over me as I was doing to him, he fixated on the object in my hands, his brows drawing together. “You brought me cat food? How romantic.”

“Oh.” I held up the box of cat biscuits, heat rising in my cheeks as I stared at it. “I kept thinking about that cat. It was skinny, and I thought I could give it at least one good meal. Only, it’s nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, someone’s been kind enough to take it in.”

Finn crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb, his smile crooked. “Who’d be stupid enough to do that?”

“Someone might. If I lived here, I would. I hope nothing’s happened to it.”

Finn laughed. There was a split second where I reconsidered everything I knew about him, if he was cruel enough to laugh at a cat’s demise. Then, he shoved the door open wider to reveal a familiar ginger cat washing itself on the arm of his sofa. “You took him in?”

He rolled his eyes. “It was supposed to be for one night. But he made himself so at home that I didn’t have the heart to throw him out. And he’s actually quite sweet, so…” Finn shrugged. “I guess I have a cat.” He plucked the box of cat biscuits from my hand and gave them a shake, the cat interested enough in the noise to stop washing and sit up. “All contributions to the cat-that-eats-more-like-a-pig fund gratefully accepted.” He headed back into the flat, turning when I didn’t follow. “Come in. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not wearing shoes. And I’m not ready to go gallivanting around Paris barefoot.”

“I can wait outside. I don’t mind.”

He leveled me with a hard stare. “No baggage, remember? Or was that just lip service?”

Accepting his point with a slight inclination of my head, I stepped inside and let the door close behind me. Recognizing a friend, the cat immediately leaped off the sofa and came over to say hello. He wound himself round and round my legs until I gave in to the inevitable and crouched down to rub him behind the ears, his purr growing louder once he gotten what he wanted. “Have you thought of a name for him?”

Finn glanced up from tying the shoelaces of his trainers. “Pain in the arse.”

“Bit long to have to shout and somebody might take it as an invitation.”

“Have you got any suggestions? It’s your fault he’s here, so the least you can do is help name him.”

“Something French,” I mused. I looked around while Finn was otherwise engaged. It was tidier than his place in London used to be, but I suspected that was more about him not having had the chance to mess it up yet, rather than turning over a new leaf. Potted plants were already encroaching, and I doubted he’d done more than look at the pictures in the French magazines.

“Van Gogh!” Finn said with something close to triumph. He circled a finger at the side of his head. “You know, on account of the missing ear.”

“Van Gogh was Dutch, not French.”

“I didn’t say it had to be French. You were the one that said that. You’d have me call him Eiffel or something.”

“Champs-Élysées?” I suggested with a grin.

“Too posh.”

We were still suggesting names when we sat down in a small cafe overlooking Notre Dame. In what I took as a good sign, the day had all the hallmarks of being a lovely one weather-wise, the temperature warm enough, even at this early hour, thatwe’d foregone the option of a table inside to watch the world go by instead. The only downside was Finn producing a pair of sunglasses, which robbed me of the sight of his long-lashed green eyes.

I gave serious contemplation to whether my phone at the bottom of the river would like some sunglasses for company before reminding myself there was a world of difference between throwing my own things in and throwing other people’s in. This was supposed to be a perfect date, an opportunity to prove to Finn that he’d be making a huge mistake if he let me disappear from his life. Not convince him he was right.

Finn made an appreciative noise as he took a bite of his pain au chocolat and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said once he’d swallowed.

“Just thinking.”

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