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The bathroom door opens, and I let go of the tie. Because fuck me.

Briony’s wearing a long black velvet dress, with black heels to match. It’s corseted at the waist, with silver embroidery running up one side, and a slit nearly to the top of her thigh.

“I found it with Emmy,” she says, smoothing her hands over her hips. “In a vintage shop. Is it okay?”

My cock twitches. I don’t even blame it. “Aye, it’s okay.”

A bit shy, Briony adds, “Emmy says my boobs look good in it.”

“She’s no wrong.”

Her tits look fantastic. I take in the thin silver chain lying just above her cleavage, then my eyes travel up to her face. Her eye make-up is dark and smoky, and it makes her eyes look even bluer than usual. She’s also done something clever with her hair—most of it pinned up, and a few strawberry blonde curls left loose round her face. Wee green stones glint in her ears.

I cross the room and kiss her. “The dress is perfect. You’re so beautiful, flower girl.” I will never get tired of looking at Briony Sinclair. “Only problem is every man in that room is gonnae be drooling over you. Then again, I did say I wanted to show you off.” I grin. “Let’s make them jealous.”

She laughs and nods at my collar. “Come here.” She pulls out her phone, finds a YouTube tutorial, and between the two of us, we get the thing tied. Then she lifts my jacket off the back of the chair and holds it out for me. I shrug it on, and she smooths it over my shoulders and pats my chest.

“There. Very handsome.” Her gaze roams over me, slow and appreciative. Just as well she likes the suit. The bloody thing cost enough.

I put my hands on her waist. The velvet is soft. There’s not a lot of room under a dress like this.

“What are you wearing under this?” I slide a hand into the slit to find out for myself, but she bats it away.

“You’ll find out later.”

My cock gives another twitch.

“You’re a menace, you know that?” I glance down at my trousers. “Now look at me. That’s your fault. How am I gonnae walk a red carpet like this?”

She giggles, and I wink at her. Honestly, though, I’ve no interest in going to the gala anymore. I’d much rather stay here and get that dress off her.

“Ryan! Over here, Ryan!”

Flashes go off one after another. The gala is in a grand old hotel off Park Lane, a short car ride from ours, and the red carpet runs up to a backdrop in the foyer covered in the NMFC Foundation logo and its sponsors. A dozen photographers are crammed behind a rope, all shouting at once.

Briony has her arm through mine. She’s smiling like she’s been doing this all her life. “I feel like a film star,” she whispers to me.

She could more than pass for one. I’ve done this more times than I can count and never once enjoyed it, but I’m enjoying watching her enjoy it.

The press get their couple shots, then Briony steps aside so I can do my solos. When I’m done with the photographers, James is waiting.

“Ryan. Good to see you.” He pulls me into a quick hug, clapping me on the back, then turns to Briony. “So, you’re the famous Briony.” He shakes her hand.

She goes pink and shoots me a pleased look.

James keeps her company while I do the media line. Four outlets, a couple of minutes each. The first questions are about the Foundation, which I give to every year and don’t mind talking about. Then they bring up Vale.

“Three weeks, Ryan.”

“Vale says you’re overrated.”

I give them a little. Then I tell them tonight is about the charity, and me and Vale will do our talking in Paris.

Since she walked the carpet with me, they of course want to know who Briony is. By the time the last interviewer asks, the answer rolls off my tongue.

“That’s Briony, my girlfriend and a very talented florist. But her life’s her own business, so that’s all you’re getting. Now, I’ve kept her waiting long enough.”

I step away from the media line and take Briony’s hand. We go through to the ballroom with James. It’s all chandeliers and round tables. I point out a couple of retired NMFC greats to Briony—a former heavyweight champion, a welterweight who held the belt for years. It means nothing to her, but then she grips my arm, starstruck, at the sight of a presenter off one of the big Saturday night shows on the telly.