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It’s been doing this for weeks, even when fully charged. Usually a bit of fiddling gets it going again. I press and hold, release, then try once more.
Nothing.
“Oh, come on! Please!”
Another press. Another hopeful pause.
Nope. It’s dead.
Shiitake mushrooms. So much for getting Ryan Sloan out of my system.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BRIONY
Somehow, it’s July already. June disappeared in a blur of wedding bouquets and prom corsages.
I’ve just finished a call with Lizzie and Darren, whose wedding—the big one—is now only two weeks away. While we were going over the final schedule, they asked if I could arrive an hour earlier than I was planning to. I smiled into the phone and said no problem, because I’m desperate to keep these two happy. But I was already planning to get up at five that day. Looks like it’ll be four now.
Still, at least I’ve got a freelance florist booked to help me. We haven’t worked together before, but she’s experienced, which is what I need on a job this big. Emmy will be holding the fort at the shop while we’re at the venue.
Moss & Ember’s new diffuser range launched the other week, and my arrangements are all over their website. They’ve tagged Briony’s Blooms in their social media posts too, which has given the shop a welcome bit of exposure. And the bridal editorial Mara mentioned is coming up a week on Tuesday. The brief for it came through the other day.
Briony’s Blooms really is blooming, if you’ll pardon the pun.
My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Emmy. She’s not working today—she’s with Niamh. In a month and a half they’ve gone from kissing in a bar to being girlfriends. Tonight is the big fight at Braehead Arena.
She’s sent over a photo of Niamh sitting on a blue mat, folded forward over one outstretched leg. She’s in shorts and a cropped training top.
Emmy
Supervising the stretching. Hard job but somebody’s got to do it
Briony
How’s she feeling?
Emmy
Excited! Though I think I’m even more excited than she is
Another photo lands, a selfie this time. Emmy is down on the mat beside her girlfriend, the two of them squashed cheek to cheek. I heart it.
Emmy told me yesterday that everyone who’s fighting tonight has been put up in the same hotel for a few days while they do medicals, official weigh-ins, and press stuff. That probably explains why I’ve not seen Ryan’s car about this week. In fact, I’ve barely seen him at all these last few weeks. A nod on the stairs. A “morning” at the front door. Once, a whole four-line conversation about the recycling.
No more half-naked encounters. Which is a good thing, of course. I’m pleased I haven’t come across him in the back court with his top off again, or seen him in his doorway in nothing but a towel. I don’t need any more of that in my life.
Did I go onto his social media account last night and watch a reel of the ceremonial weigh-in? Maybe. And did he have his top off in that? Well, yes. But that’s different. I’m not quite sure how it’s different, but it is.
Anyway, it was a production. Stage lights blazing, music thumping, a crowd packed in and roaring. Ryan walked out and pulled his shirt off over his head. He was even leaner than I remembered, every muscle standing out. I suppose that’s to do with getting down to the right weight for the fight. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
He stepped onto the scales, the announcer called out his weight, and the place erupted. Honestly, the enthusiasm for a number on a scale was really quite something.
Afterwards, Ryan and Kovac, his Croatian opponent, did this strange little ritual where they stood almost nose to nose and glared at each other while an official hovered between them and cameras flashed. Kovac—broad-shouldered, thick through the neck, with a nose every bit as crooked as Ryan’s—said something, jutting his chin. Ryan just smiled back at him, a slow, bored, is that everything? sort of smile.
Personally, I’d have made every effort to stay on Kovac’s good side. The man looks mildly terrifying.
I’m just messaging Emmy asking her to wish Niamh good luck from me when my phone rings.
