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“Ryan,” I say. “Why is my parcel open?”

“In my defence, it was handed to me. I’m waiting on a delivery. Thought it was mine.”

I’m about to tell him that most people check the name before they start ripping into things when it hits me what’s in the box.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

My old one died weeks ago, and I’ve been getting by just fine without it, thank you very much. But lying in bed late on Saturday night, replacing it suddenly felt rather urgent. I went online and ordered one to arrive as soon as possible.

A new vibrator.

I have a quick look in the box because some tiny, deluded part of me is still hoping it might be something else.

It isn’t something else. Inside, held snugly in a little cardboard insert, is a pink rose-shaped object that could not possibly be mistaken for anything innocent.

When I look up again, Ryan’s smirk has deepened into something truly unbearable.

“I opened the box expecting gear from Razor Athletics, but what I found was a lot more interesting.” He leans close and lowers his voice. “You’re full of surprises, Briony Sinclair. Here was me thinking you were a well-mannered, prudish wee lassie. Then again, I’ve had you pressed up against this very door.” He taps the wood. “So maybe I shouldnae be surprised.”

I clutch the box to my chest. I can’t speak. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak again.

“Well.” He pushes himself off the doorframe and turns to go. “Enjoy, flower girl.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BRIONY

“—and the champagne was flowing all night long. Champagne! Not prosecco, Briony. Actual champagne.”

“Mmm,” I say.

Emmy is at the bench conditioning sweet peas, our first of the year. She trims each bunch then stands it in water. She’s been giving me the full account of Saturday’s afterparty since she came through the door this morning. She started talking before she’d even shaken off her umbrella.

I’ve been nodding, saying “no way!” and “really?” in what I hope are the right places, while trying very hard not to think about the person whose afterparty she’s describing. Unfortunately, every mention of Ryan drags me straight back to last night: me in my hall, clutching a torn-open cardboard box to my chest while he leaned against my doorframe with stitches in his eyebrow and a smirk I would happily have thrown him down the stairs for.

Enjoy, flower girl.

The box is in my wardrobe, still with the thing inside it. After I closed the door on Ryan, I wasn’t able to bring myself to take it out. Exactly how am I supposed to use it now? Any time I see it, I’ll just think of him.

It could, I suppose, be argued that the reason I ordered it late on Saturday night was because I was thinking of him, but I refute that. It was a coincidence, nothing more.

Coincidences do happen, all right?

“And then,” Emmy says, “Ryan said⁠—”

“Did the Marchmont order come through?” I interrupt. “They wanted the table centres for Thursday, and I’ve not seen the confirmation.”

“It’s in the inbox. I printed it.” She trims another bunch and stands it in the bucket. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, so Liam and Imran dragged Ryan up to do a speech, but he actually spent most of it talking about how well Niamh did, beating her opponent in the first round. Isn’t that sweet? And then he said⁠—”

It goes on like this all morning. I steer us towards orders, delivery runs, shop stuff, and Emmy steers us straight back to the club, to Niamh, to Ryan. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. Two months ago, she was giving him a piece of her mind outside the shop, and now she can’t shut up about him.

By half eleven, the rain has stopped and I am in desperate need of a break from all the Ryan chatter. I grab my jacket and my little cross-body bag from the hook in the back.

“I’m going to nip out with Penny and let her do her business while it’s dry,” I tell Emmy.

Penny rouses herself, and we set off. The wee park five minutes away is empty when we reach it. I unclip Penny and let her potter. Of course, she can’t just pick a spot and get on with it. Every blade of grass needs to be sniffed and assessed first. I wander after her with my hands in my pockets, the grass squelching under my shoes.