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I nod. “Yep. Got it.”

He starts with my feet, of all things. Where to put them. How to stand so that a shove doesn’t knock me off balance. He walks around me while I hold the stance he’s shown me, then he nudges my shoulder. When I wobble, he moves my foot with the side of his and tells me to try again.

After that, we move on to shouting, which I didn’t realise would be part of the training. But as Ryan says, “Shouting’s a weapon. That guy at the Grove? He was counting on you being too polite to make a scene. Well, don’t be polite. Make a scene. Go on, tell me to back off.”

“Back off,” I say.

He crosses his arms and stares at me.

Fine. “Back off,” I say slightly louder.

“Briony. You’re no asking me to pass the salt. Yell at me. C’mon.”

It takes six more goes before I finally pass muster, and by then I’m red to the ears.

Next is wrists. He takes hold of my wrist and talks me through how to twist out of it. I do it, then he takes hold again, firmer this time. I twist free again.

We do the other wrist. Then both.

As the session goes on, he keeps moving me into position, a hand at my shoulder one moment, at my hip the next. I try to concentrate on what he’s teaching me. Unfortunately, I’m far too conscious of my nipples, which have gone tight beneath my T-shirt. Thank goodness I wore a baggy one. I’m pretty sure he can’t tell.

Luckily, his eyes are focused on my feet, my hands, my elbows. He’s patient, almost matter-of-fact. Apparently, he’s considerably less distracted by me than I am by him. Which is a good thing. I wouldn’t want it any other way. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

After a while, Ryan leads me to a clear stretch of wall beside the mirrors.

“Next, I’m gonnae pin you against this wall and show you how to make enough room to get out. Same rule as before. You want me off you, say the word or tap twice.”

He talks me through where to put my hands, how to work my arms inside his and turn my hips so I can step out. We do it again, then again, with a little more resistance each time.

It’s a useful thing to learn. But it’s deeply distracting having Ryan Sloan pressed against me while I’m supposed to be concentrating on technique.

By the fourth attempt, I’m getting the hang of it. I turn, step through, and slip free.

“Good work,” Ryan says. “All right, we’ll do one more drill tonight. Lie down on the mat on your back.”

“Er…” He wants me to lie down on my back? Isn’t that a bit, you know…?

“Or we can call it a night, if you’d prefer?”

“No. It’s fine.” I swallow. “Let’s do the last one.”

I lie down and find myself looking up at his ceiling spotlights, which is not a view I expected to have this evening. My T-shirt rides up over my stomach, and I quickly tug it back down. If Ryan notices, he doesn’t show it. How come he’s having such an effect on me and I’m doing absolutely nothing to him?

You know why, Briony. He’s a muscled MMA superstar with over a million followers on social media. You’re a girl who runs a wee flower shop.

He steps over me and kneels astride me. My face goes hot. There is nowhere respectable to look.

“Two taps and I’m off. Aye?”

“You’ve said.”

“I’ll keep saying.”

His knees are planted either side of my hips. From down here, he looks enormous—broad shoulders blotting out the light, tattoo climbing out of his collar and up his neck. I also can’t help noticing there’s no more than an inch between the crotch of his shorts and me.

This is a lesson, I tell myself. A lesson about personal safety. Nothing more.

“You’re no gonnae lift me off, so don’t try. You’re gonnae take my base away and let the floor do the rest.” He taps his wrist. “Grab this. Both hands. Keep it tight against you. Now bring your foot up and catch my ankle. Same side. That’s it.”