Page 41

For several seconds, I remained on the sofa with my phone in my hand.

I'd invited a fallen angel into my apartment.

My mother would undoubtedly have questions.

Fortunately, she wasn't here to ask them.

I got up to straighten the cushions, then stopped myself. Cillian wasn't coming to inspect the furniture, and I didn't particularly care whether he thought my living room looked ready for a magazine photograph.

I went into the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my hair. My reflection looked considerably better than I felt, although there was a faint crease between my eyebrows that hadn't been there when I'd left for work.

I smoothed my hair over my shoulders and considered changing clothes.

Then I looked down at my leggings and old sweatshirt.

Cillian had already seen me dressed as an angel. He'd also seen a great deal more of me than the sweatshirt concealed.

If he couldn't appreciate comfortable clothes and a slightly untidy apartment, we were going to have problems far more immediate than his celestial history.

I returned to the living room just as the building's intercom buzzed.

I pressed the button to let him in, then waited by the door, listening to footsteps on the stairs.

When I opened it, Cillian was standing in the hallway wearing black jeans, a dark fitted T-shirt, and his familiar combat boots. His hair was slightly disheveled from the wind, and the silver piercings in his ears caught the light as he smiled at me.

He'd concealed his wings and celestial markings, leaving only the tattoos I'd first noticed at work.

It was almost ridiculous how ordinary he looked.

Well, ordinary for a man who could've stepped off the cover of a particularly scandalous rock magazine.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello."

I stepped aside to let him enter.

He paused on the mat to wipe his boots, then glanced around the living room with obvious interest. His attention settled briefly on the small collection of books beside the sofa, the framed harbor photographs above the mantel, and the cream throw I'd abandoned earlier.

"I like your place," he said. "It suits you."

"Thank you. I'm usually a little more particular about keeping it tidy."

He looked around again.

"Should I be concerned that I can't see the mess?"

"You haven't looked in the bedroom."

The words escaped before I considered their possible interpretation.

Cillian's mouth curved.

"Then I'll reserve judgment."

I laughed and closed the door.

There was something wonderful about hearing him tease me in my own living room. At work, we'd always been surrounded by colleagues and obligations. At the Grand, we'd been playing with the freedom of anonymity.