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Perhaps there’s more sportsmanship in this than I realised.

Mondays at Briony’s Blooms are a one-woman show. Emmy doesn’t work them, which is fine in theory because Monday is our quietest day. But in practice, I’m always shattered come five o’clock, more so than any other day. There’s nobody to split the jobs with, nobody to chat to, nobody to exchange a look with after a difficult customer leaves.

After closing up, I take Penny for a quick walk, then head upstairs and change into comfy clothes. I eat a simple dinner—pasta and pesto—then settle on the sofa with a tea and my feet tucked under me. Penny is a warm weight against my hip. Rain taps at the bay window, and outside the sky has turned a heavy grey.

Yeah. I’ve no intention of leaving the flat again until morning. Just me and Penny and a book⁠—

Someone knocks at my door.

Penny lifts her head. I look at my tea, then at the door, then at Penny.

“Think we could just ignore it?” I ask her.

She leaps off the sofa, goes over to the door, and scratches at it.

“Okay, okay,” I say to her. “I’m coming.”

It’ll probably be Mrs Dunlop after a bit of milk. She hates not having milk for her tea, which I can quite understand. I pad across to the door and open it.

It’s not Mrs Dunlop.

Ryan Sloan stands on the landing. There’s a row of neat black stitches above his left eyebrow, and the skin around it is bruised purple. His right cheek is swollen, pushing the eye above it half-shut. And the corner of his mouth is split and starting to scab over.

He should look exhausted. Instead, he looks relaxed and energised, as though Saturday’s win has left him glowing from the inside out. He has a parcel tucked under one arm.

“Evening,” he says.

Penny presents herself for a pat, and Ryan duly delivers one. It gives me a moment to study him without being caught. Even battered, there’s no disguising the breadth of his shoulders beneath his grey T-shirt, or the easy strength in the arm stroking Penny’s back.

Since Saturday, my mind has kept returning to the fight. At the time, I was too busy worrying someone was going to get badly hurt to appreciate any of it. Afterwards, though? Two men at the absolute peak of fitness, stripped to the waist, all speed and strength and instinct? I’m not proud of it, but there was something horribly, primitively attractive about the whole thing.

Did I think about it—him—as I lay in bed on Saturday night? Yes. Frankly, I thought about him a little more than I’d care to admit.

Ryan straightens then casually leans a shoulder against my doorframe. “So. What did you think?”

“Of what?” I say, even though I know fine well what he’s asking.

He raises his eyebrows. The stitches lift too.

“Innes enjoyed it. Very much.”

“Careful. You’ll do yourself an injury with all that enthusiasm.”

I roll my eyes. “It was fine. Congratulations on your win.”

“Thanks. You know something? I thought you looked worried about me, flower girl.”

“I wasn’t worried about you.” I fold my arms. “I don’t like seeing people get hurt, that’s all. I don’t like seeing anyone get hurt.”

“Right.”

The way he says “right” makes it very clear he doesn’t believe me, and that bugs me. So instead of being sensible and leaving it there, I add, “I don’t understand how you can enjoy hurting people. It’s barbaric.”

I regret it as soon as I say it. I’m overcompensating, of course, because I’ve been thinking about Ryan bare-chested in that cage a little too much these last few days.

The teasing smile disappears from his face. “Aye,” he says. “Course you don’t understand.” But then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts again. “Nearly forgot. This is yours.”

He takes the parcel out from under his arm and passes it to me. It’s a brown cardboard box, roughly the size of a book, and it’s addressed to me. It’s been torn open.