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I look down at her fingertip, still resting on my skin. It takes me a second to find my voice. “What about them?”

“They’re gladioli. Or they’re meant to be, I think.”

“Aye?”

Her mouth curves. “You don’t know?”

“Picked it off a wall in a tattoo place when I was twenty-one. Thought the skull looked cool.”

She smiles, then leans in for a closer look, her finger following the edge of a petal. My cock decides to ignore every word of our earlier pep talk. Fucking stupid thing.

“Yes,” she says after a few seconds. “Definitely gladioli. They’re associated with strength. Victory. The name comes from the Latin for sword. Gladiolus means little sword.”

Mercifully, she takes her hand away, and my brain starts working again.

“Strength, victory, and swords,” I say.

“Mm-hmm.”

“That’s a lot for flowers.”

“Flowers are much more interesting than most people give them credit for.”

Is she flirting with me? Maybe. But why? She doesn’t strike me as the type to shag someone she can’t stand.

More importantly, why is it getting to me? Getting a semi because a girl touches my tattoo? That’s just embarrassing.

Wish I could blame the booze, but I’ve only had one. This is me sober.

“Aye,” I say. “I didnae know there were flowers named after swords. That’s pretty cool.”

Her smile softens, and my gaze drops to her mouth. The tip of her tongue touches her lower lip. An invitation?

No chance. I must be reading this wrong.

Her hand settles on my thigh.

Okay. Maybe I’m not reading this wrong.

I lean forward, just a little. She leans forward too. My cock gives another twitch, clearly liking where this is going. Then⁠—

A hand lands on my shoulder.

“Ryan! Oh my God, I thought it was you.”

Chloe. The model from my flat-warming. The one who stayed the night.

For fuck’s sake.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRIONY

I’m not entirely sure how I got here. Here being Ryan Sloan looking at my mouth like it’s something he’d quite like to taste, and me wetting my lips because I would very much like him to.

I wait for him to make a move. He doesn’t.

God. Am I doing this wrong? I’ve held his gaze. I’ve touched his arm—his actual bare arm—for the best part of a minute, under the entirely respectable cover of a botany lesson. How much more obvious can you get?