Page 51 of Never Too Late

“I set an alarm, and I got up,” he explained. “I didn’t see any reason we both needed to be up.”

“I already told you, I—”

“I called your boss.”

Surprise had me blinking at him for a few seconds. “You did?” He nodded. “And said what?”

“That Laurent had been in a nasty accident and was in hospital, and that you’d kept a vigil until he’d gotten out of surgery in the early hours, that you hadn’t gotten to bed until a ridiculously late hour, so wouldn’t be in today. But that you’d be back tomorrow. Did I miss anything?”

I shook my head. Movement had me looking in Quasimodo’s direction as he jumped on the sofa, the stub of his tail twitching. “I need to feed Quasi. He’s probably starving.”

“I already did that. He got breakfast before I did. I cleaned his litter tray as well, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

I sat back in the chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “Have you done anything else?”

Cillian considered the question for a moment and then gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s a pot of coffee in there for when you want one. And I bought croissants for both of us. They’re in a box on the counter.” His brow furrowed. “I spoke to Amrita to explain why I was mysteriously missing from the office. Oh, and I spoke to a couple of clients as well. I think that was it.” He cocked his head to one side and studied me. “Are you pissed at me?”

“I’m trying to be, but I’m failing miserably. You make those of us who aren’t superhuman look bad.”

Cillian waved the compliment—or maybe it was a criticism; I wasn’t entirely sure myself—away with a flick of his hand. “You needed to sleep.” He took a sip of his coffee before remembering something. “Oh, and I called the hospital, as well. Visiting hours start at three. Which”—he glanced down at the time on the laptop—”gives you just enough time to shower, shave, dress, and eat breakfast. I was going to wake you at half-past one if you hadn’t stirred by then. I’ve booked a cab for a quarter to, so we get there in plenty of time.”

“We?” I questioned.

He smiled. “We,” he confirmed. “And no, I don’t know if Laurent’s awake. I tried to find out, but I hit a brick wall. I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

I might not have had a full night’s sleep, but there was a lot to be said for showering and eating breakfast for feeling like something other than roadkill. And if I was honest, there was something relaxing about being able to sit back and let someone else take charge: a role Cillian was obviously born for. “Whydidn’t I ever see this side of you before?” I asked as we pulled up in front of the hospital and Cillian paid the driver.

His expression was quizzical as he turned my way. “What side?”

I laughed as we started for the entrance. “The take charge side. It’s very attractive.”

“Yeah?” Despite Cillian trying really hard to hold back his smile, it still escaped. “It’s not too bossy?”

“Not when it involves me getting extra sleep. I’d be a zombie now if you’d gotten me up when I wanted you to. Plus, I should have set my own damn alarm if I was that bothered.”

“You were so out of it I’m not sure you were capable.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” I agreed. “You haven’t answered the question, though.”

“I guess… because I was stupid, and I poured it all into work rather than what really matters. There wasn’t a lot of Cillian King left for you.”

“Just the one part,” I quipped with a sideways glance and a smirk.

He laughed. “Yeah, that was all for you.”

“I just had limited access. More like a rental than ownership.”

Our coded conversation brought us all the way to the lift, Cillian standing aside to let people pass as we timed it perfectly and one arrived. Our visit turned out to be an anticlimax, Laurent still unconscious. A nurse—this one speaking fluent English—assured me it was perfectly normal and that it would only be a cause for concern if forty-eight hours passed with no sign of improvement. Either Laurent looked slightly better as I sat by his bed and carried out a one-sided conversation, or I’d just grown accustomed to his bruised and swollen appearance.

Cillian, meanwhile, melted into the background to give me some privacy, and then embarked on the longest jaunt to getcoffee the world has ever seen or is likely to, given there was a vending machine right at the end of the corridor.

We grabbed ingredients to cook on the way home, Cillian proving himself just as capable in the kitchen with rustling up a salmon-based dish as he was everywhere else. “What aren’t you good at?” I asked as we ate the meal and Quasimodo devoured his share of the salmon.

“Erm… tightrope walking.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

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