Page 8 of Never Too Late

Heat flared in Cillian’s eyes. “We did get it right. Frequently.”

“Yeah…” Refusing to let my mind wander in that direction, I sat up straighter. “I’m sorry things ended the way they did, and that I was too gutless to do things the way I should have done. It probably doesn’t help, but running away will never be one of my proudest moments.” Abandoning the rest of my coffee that I’d never wanted anyway, I stood to send a message we were done.

Cillian tipped his head back to keep me in his line of sight. “I might have messed things up and taken you for granted, but my feelings for you were never anything but real.”

My heart gave a little skip and I silently cursed it for being such a traitorous bastard, while I pondered how I was supposed to respond. Thanks, would be too cold. But any other response would plunge me into a conversation I wasn’t emotionally ready for. Hell, I wasn’t emotionally prepared for any of this. I’d never dreamed of Cillian turning up at my door one day. Maybe I’d thought our paths might cross in years to come. But in my head that had always taken place after I’d moved back to England. In it, one or both of us were married, and we’d laugh about our short-lived relationship.

Neither of us was laughing now, though. Cillian had a slightly pained expression on his face, and my chest felt like someone had wrapped a rubber band round it. A tight rubber band that constricted my breathing. “I have to go,” I said.

Cool, fresh air had never felt so good as I stepped back out onto the street, the wind whipping at my hair as I hastened back toward my flat. Relief at having survived the encounter came toa screeching halt as fingers fastened around my wrist and tugged me to a stop.

Chapter Four

“Let go,” I hissed at Cillian as he tugged me to face him, the sparks his touch ignited wholly unwelcome.

“No! Not until you’ve heard me out properly. I hadn’t finished saying what I came here to say.”

I tried to yank my wrist back, but the movement proved fruitless, Cillian’s fingers like an iron band. Not tight enough to hurt or leave bruises, but tight enough to send the message that he had no intention of letting go until he was good and ready. “Whatever you’ve got to say won’t make any difference, so you may as well save your breath. I appreciate I owed you an explanation. I’ve given you one, so now it’s time for us both to act like adults and move on.”

Cillian shook his head, his expression as serious as I’d ever seen it. “I messed up and I take full responsibility for that. I didn’t treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and I’m sorry.” There was some satisfaction in hearing him own his mistakes, and I knew I’d replay those words later and feel a little less guilty for how badly I’d mangled ending things. Anticipatingthat was what he’d needed to say, I gave my wrist another experimental tug. It seemed he still wasn’t done, though.

He came a step closer and all my senses went into overdrive, the scent of his cologne hauntingly familiar. Cillian was close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that his lips were only a few inches away and all I could think about was how good a kisser he was.

“Let me go,” I pleaded. “It took me too long to get over you.”

Something like triumph flashed in Cillian’s eyes and I realized my mistake too late: that I’d just admitted how into him I’d been.

“The problem,” Cillian said quietly, his brown eyes boring into mine, “Is that I’m not over you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re—”

“I know exactly what I’m saying. Ask me why I came here.”

“Why did you come here?”

“To get you back,” Cillian said with a smile. “To put right whatever went wrong between us.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Is it?” When I didn’t answer, he searched my face. “Maybe. But I have to try. And I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.”

His words sent a shaft of pure emotion through me difficult to identify. Part of it was fear that all the careful safeguarding of my heart was about to unravel. But beneath that, there was excitement, too. And I hated myself for it. Because I wanted to believe Cillian. I wanted it to be true, and that was dangerous.

Cillian’s hand slid lower, his fingers interlocking with mine as he maintained eye contact. “Come for a drink with me. A proper drink. We’ll talk some more. You can call me all the names under the sun if it makes you feel better.”

“I don’t need to call you names.”

His smile was blinding in its intensity, his hand squeezing mine. “There we go. I feel like we’ve made progress already.”

Whereas, I felt like I was staring directly into the sun.Say no. Tell him to get on the first available flight back to London. Tell him he had his chance and that you’re not a big enough mug to give him a second one.“Okay. One drink.”

Despite Cillian’s choice of restaurant/bar being busy, he’d found a quietish corner. An empty table had materialized soon after our entrance, as things had a habit of doing for him—like even the universe recognized there was no point in arguing. Getting drinks proved equally straightforward for Cillian, people parting like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea when he arrived at the bar, and the bartender immediately serving him, even though there were people who’d been waiting longer.

“Do you speak French?” I asked him as he deposited a bottle of beer in front of me. I picked it up to check the label, surprised to find he’d remembered my tastes well enough to orderSan Miguelwithout having to ask. He pushed a glass toward me and I waved it off, preferring to drink from the bottle. First coffee and now beer. I really wouldn’t be sleeping tonight, but that was probably the least of my problems.

“Passably,” Cillian offered in response to my question.

“I didn’t know that.”

---