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And the bell above the door tinkles as someone comes in.
A woman, early forties, dressed in the sort of effortless way that probably takes an enormous amount of effort. Wide-leg trousers, gold hoops, a trench worn open over a black jumper.
“Morning,” I say, setting down my coffee and going straight into florist mode. “Can I help you?”
The woman smiles. “I hope so. I’m looking for someone to put together some flowers for a shoot.”
“A shoot?”
“That’s right. I’m a freelance art director and set designer. I’m styling a campaign for Moss & Ember in a couple of weeks.”
Moss & Ember? I know that brand. One of their candles is sitting on my bookshelf upstairs.
“They’re launching a botanical diffuser range,” the woman continues. “We’re shooting it in an old warehouse. I’m after flowers that feel a bit…wild. Romantic but not polished. I’m hoping to make it look like something’s started growing up through the concrete, if that makes sense.”
I keep my expression pleasantly professional. Emmy, beside me, does not. I don’t look at her, but I can feel the excited face she’s making.
It’s not every day someone walks into the shop asking for our help with a product launch. In fact, it has literally never happened before. The exposure from something like this could be huge for us.
“That’s very much our sort of thing,” I say.
“I’m glad. Your shop was recommended to me.”
“Oh? Who by?”
She gives a vague wave of her hand. “An old client. They knew the shop and assured me you had a good eye. From the looks of things”—she casts an appraising glance around—“you do.”
Remembering myself, I put my hand out. “Briony Sinclair.”
“Mara. Mara Ellis.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes talking through the brief and going through my portfolio on the iPad. By the end, she’s seen enough to book me. She pays a deposit, promises to email a mood board early next week, and then she’s away, the bell tinkling cheerfully behind her.
Emmy and I look at each other. Once we’re sure Mara is out of earshot, we squeal.
CHAPTER NINE
RYAN
Jab. Step back. Angle out. Reset.
Six and a half weeks till the fight, and the six o’clock starts are back. Five-mile run first, then footwork drills in the back court. The slabs aren’t a cage floor, but they’re dry and flat, and I’ve got the place to myself.
I’ve trained hard enough this morning that I’ve gone taps aff. My T-shirt is slung over the bench beside my phone. The air feels good on my hot skin. Rock music hammers away in my ears. Not a bad way to start the day.
Jab. Step back—
Something white flickers at the edge of my vision. I stop.
It’s Penny. She’s come trotting out the back door, which is half open. She squats on the grass for a pee, then hurries over to me and licks the sweat off my shin.
I tap an earbud, cutting the music, and crouch down to rub her head. “Morning, wee yin. Where’s your maw?”
I get my answer a moment later. Briony appears in the doorway, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Her hair is loose for once, and it’s longer than I’d have guessed, strawberry blonde curls everywhere. She’s in flannel pyjamas—a different pair from the night she marched into my flat, but a similar idea. Wide-legged, soft, white with red hearts all over them. The flannel is thin. I can’t help but notice it doesn’t do much to hide the outline of her wee tits.
The moment she spots me, her gaze drops to my bare chest. And lingers. Then she catches herself and looks up, folding her arms, like she’s just remembered what she’s wearing.
“Oh. Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realise you’d be out here. It’s so early.”
