Page 6 of Never Too Late

“You need protecting from me?”

I dragged my gaze to Cillian’s, found it too unsettling, and concentrated on the wall in the corridor where someone had scraped off a section of paint instead. Probably someone too enthusiastic when they’d moved in or out. I didn’t think it had been me, but it could have been. I certainly wouldn’t swear on anyone’s life that I’d played no part in it. “Of course not. It was just a turn of phrase. Laurent’s French. He’s dramatic.”

“Is he your…?” The long pause had me focusing back on Cillian. This time, I forced myself to keep looking while he chose his next word carefully. “…boyfriend?”

Cillian looked tired. Which was quite the revelation when I’d witnessed him work all the hours under the sun and show zero negative effects from it, like the adrenaline and stress of heading up a successful advertising agency did nothing but energize him. I mulled over the answer to his question. Yes, would be a copout and a lie, but would solve the problem. No, would be honest, but leave me vulnerable. It was quite the quandary. “No,” I finally said. “He’s just a friend.”

“Okay.” The word was careful and had me searching for the hidden meaning behind it. “Can I come in?”

That I didn’t need to think about, the “no” tumbling out instinctively. As did moving to block the gap in the door with my body in case Cillian took a step forward. There were a multitude of reasons I didn’t want Cillian in my flat, chief among them that my place in Paris held no memories of him, and I wanted to keep it that way. And yes, if pushed, I’d admit to a fear of being alone with him near a bed. History showed how poorly that usually ended.

“I want to talk to you.”

My fingernails dug into my palms while I considered the simple request. “And then will you go away?”

Cillian reared back like I’d struck him. It was clear he’d expected a warmer reception, which was crazy. “If that’s what you want.”

I gave a reluctant nod. “We can go out. There’s a brasserie at the end of the street that stays open late.” I held up a hand. “Wait here while I grab my jacket.” I closed the door as a precaution in case Cillian ignored my request not to enter, the automatic lock clicking into place. After shrugging into my jacket, I grabbed my wallet and keys and then stood for a moment in front of the closed door. What would Cillian do if I didn’t come back out? How long would he wait before giving up? Would he come back another night?

If the answer to that last question was yes, then I was better sucking it up and getting this over with. Taking a deep breath, I tugged the door open to find Cillian leaning against the wall next to the spot of peeled paint. At my reappearance, he straightened, his gaze searching as he waited for me to join him. I kept as much distance between us as I could without it being obvious as I led the way down the two flights of stairs that took us to the street, and then the fifty or so meters to the brasserie.

We remained silent until after the brasserie staff served us and we sat with steaming mugs of coffee.

“You speak French,” was Cillian’s opening gambit.

Despite the tension crackling between us, I laughed. “Barely. I’ve learned enough to get by, but it wouldn’t win me any awards.”

“Still…”

Cillian’s gaze was fixed on my face, and I regretted bringing him to a place that required us to be within a meter of each other, separated only by a table. It was too close. Too intimate. A walk would have been better. It would have provided distractions and enabled me to walk by his side rather than to have to look at him.

Here, there was no escape from the pleasing symmetry of his features. Or from the memories that seeing him again sparked in my gut.

My phone vibrated in my pocket and, glad of an excuse to look away, even if it was only for a few seconds, I pulled it out to check the screen. Laurent’s message was a simple one:Are you okay?I typedAsk me laterand sent it before shoving my phone back in my pocket.

Lifting my head, I pasted a smile on my face. “So… I assume you have business in Paris. How long are you here for? Just tonight? Or for a couple of days?” I was proud of my breeziness. “You’re not opening another branch, are you?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

God, yes. There are one hundred and ninety-five recognized countries in the world and you pick this one.I shrugged. “It’s a free country. You can do whatever you want.”

Cillian propped his chin on his hand and stared at me, his brown eyes full of something I couldn’t interpret, and wasn’t sure I wanted to. “No, I’m not opening another branch. And I’mnot here on business. I came for one reason and one reason only. To see you.”

I doubted a shotgun pellet in the chest could have had more impact. Despite it being far too late to drink coffee when caffeine always had a negative effect on me, I took a sip to hide my discomfort. I doubted I’d be sleeping much tonight, anyway. It was probably far more likely that I’d lie awake and replay this entire conversation, forensically examining every part to ascertain whether I’d said and done the right thing, and beating myself up for any moments where I could have handled things better. “How did you get my address?”

“Your old workplace.”

“They just gave it to you?”

“Notjust… no. It took some work on my part. But, eventually. I tried your friends first, but none of them were forthcoming.”

Yet, nobody had bothered to pick up the phone and warn me about Cillian sniffing around. A heads up would have been nice before he turned up on my doorstep. I could have taken evasive action, like… I don’t know… faking my death or something.

Cillian turned his head toward the door, his coffee still untouched. I automatically followed his gaze, expecting to see someone arriving, but there was no one there. Just a door. He started talking with his head still turned that way, as if marshaling his thoughts was easier without the distraction of looking at me. “You came to my office. You had sex with me, and then you disappeared off the face of the earth, like you were nothing but a figment of my imagination.”

I winced. When he put it like that, it sounded awful. It was awful. On a deeper level, I’d always understood that, but my emotional state at the time had been such that I hadn’t seen any other option.

“I even thought about going to the police.”

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