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He shakes his head. “My cock, baby. I’ll get you to say it yet.”

I put my thumbs and forefingers together to make a rectangle, close one eye, and peer at him through it. “Click,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow.

“The shoot isn’t quite over,” I explain. “That was a mental photo. For my eyes only.”

“Oh, aye?” A slow grin. “Don’t you want my muscles in your mental photo?”

He pulls his vest off over his head and strikes a pose—biceps up, chest out, every muscle flexed. And down below, an extremely prominent erection straining at his compression shorts.

I giggle but dutifully hold up my imaginary camera. “Click.”

“And here’s another one for you.” He hooks his thumbs into his waistband and tugs the shorts down.

I gasp, like I’m horrified. But I look, obviously.

Ryan, entirely naked now, strikes another pose for me, arms up like he’s just won a title.

“Ryan!” I try to look suitably outraged, but the giggles give me away.

“What? You said the shoot wasnae over.” He drops his arms, chuckling. “To be fair, I’m no just showing off. I do actually have to get changed.” He picks his boxers up off the chair and glances down at himself. “Be helpful if this calmed down a bit first, mind. While we’re waiting on that, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Now?”

“Now. The NMFC do a charity gala every year in London. Black tie, at some big hotel. There’s a red carpet and press on the way in, then dinner, speeches, an auction, a band. Half the fighters turn up, plus the NMFC bosses, sponsors, the broadcasters, a few famous faces. Money goes to the NMFC’s foundation.” He shrugs. “I went last year. I’m allowed to bring a guest. It’s Saturday the nineteenth of September. Would you come wi’ me?”

I’m being invited to a black-tie gala by a man standing in front of me with his penis out. I try very hard to keep my eyes on his face, with only moderate success. Ryan, meanwhile, seems entirely unfazed.

“I’d love you to be there,” he says. “For the company. And, if I’m honest, cause I’d quite like to show you off. Liam and Imran don’t fight for the NMFC, so they don’t get an invite. Niamh does, but she’d rather chew glass than go to something like that.”

He’s giving me the same look he gave me when he asked me to Paris. Eager. Boyish. As though my answer really matters to him.

“I’ll need to check my schedule,” I say. “But actually, I’ve been talking to a florist who might be able to help out in the shop, and it’s looking promising. If I take her on, this could be a good trial run—her and Emmy working together without me there, before Paris.” I nod, mostly to myself. “Yes. One way or another, I think I can make it work. I’ll come.”

His whole face lights up, and he holds his arms out for a hug, boxers still in one hand.

I eye the situation below his waist. “Maybe pop that away first?” I suggest.

He glances down. Things are, in fairness, calming down. He winks at me then pulls his boxers up. He holds his arms out again, and this time I walk straight into them.

A few minutes later, we leave the changing room, Ryan in his own clothes and holding my hand. From the faces of the people who look over, nobody is in any doubt about what we got up to in there.

My cheeks burn, but I can’t bring myself to regret a single second of it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

RYAN

I pull on one end of the bow tie, and the whole bloody thing comes undone. Again.

“Fuck’s sake.”

I’m standing at the mirror in our London hotel suite in my suit trousers and shirt, an hour before the NMFC charity gala, losing a fight to a strip of black fabric.

Suits aren’t my thing. At all. I hate having anything done up round my throat. But it’s a black-tie event, so here I am.

Cross over. Up through. Fold⁠—