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Except then I’d be looking at these flowers every morning and every evening while he gets on with his life on the next floor up, apology delivered, conscience clear.

No. I’m not having that.

I pick up the basket, turn, and continue up the stairs.

Penny, intrigued, comes with me.

Getting up the stairs with the basket is one thing. Knocking is another. In the end I balance it against my hip and free a hand long enough to rap on the door. Clematis tickles my chin.

It takes him a few moments to answer. When he does, he fills the doorway, back in jeans and a white T-shirt. His eyes go from my face to the basket and back again. Not even a flicker of surprise.

Penny’s tail goes like a windscreen wiper. Is she honestly hoping for another pat? Traitor.

I hold the basket out. “I can’t accept this.”

Ryan considers me. One eyebrow lifts.

“It feels…off,” I add.

“If you don’t like the flowers,” he says, “take it up with the florist.”

My jaw tightens.

He doesn’t move, just holds my gaze, steady and far too direct. I feel my face going hot.

“If I’d known they were meant for me, I’d have told you not to bother.”

“Fine.” He reaches for the basket. “I’ll bin them.”

I snatch the basket back against my chest and make a noise like he’s threatened to lob a puppy into traffic. “You absolutely will not.”

“You said you didn’t want them.”

“I said I couldn’t accept them.” I tighten my grip. “That’s not the same as wanting them in a bin. They’re perfectly good flowers. You can’t just throw them away.”

One corner of his mouth curls—not quite a smile, and very obviously at my expense. He gives a shrug, steps back, and closes the door on me.

Penny immediately scratches at it.

“Penny,” I hiss. “Stop that!”

She gives the bottom of the door one last hopeful sniff then turns back to me, entirely unashamed.

We head back down the stairs, my annoyance growing with every step. What an arrogant, infuriating man!

Back on my landing, I set the basket down in front of Mrs Dunlop’s door. It’ll be a nice surprise for her when she gets home from bridge night. Anyway, the message—For the noise. And the building work.—could just as easily apply to her as to me. She’s had to put up with weeks of it too.

“Right, Pen. Dinner, bath, and The Repair Shop, as promised.”

And if I spend the whole programme thinking of things I should have said to that man, that’s nobody’s business but mine.

CHAPTER THREE

RYAN

Imran comes forward the way he always comes forward. Head down, shoulder first, trying to drive straight through me on weight alone.

I let him come. Let him commit to it.