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After years of being perfectly fine on my own, why did I have to do things with Ryan Sloan of all people? He’s arrogant. Dangerous. He couldn’t be any less suited to me.

And yet I think I like him. That’s the kicker. I don’t know why, but I do.

Maybe it’s the confidence. He’s so sure of himself. Is it irritating? Yes, but it’s attractive too. I can’t deny it.

And then there are his muscles. They’re self-explanatory, I think. I haven’t had many sexual partners, but none of them looked anything like that.

And, of course, there’s his penis.

Is it crude to compare men’s penises? I’m sure it must be. Women have for years complained—quite rightly—about the way men quite casually assess every aspect of our figures, from our weight to our breasts. To complain about that and then apply the exact same sort of comparisons to men seems hypocritical in the extreme.

And yet…of the penises I’ve seen, Ryan’s wins hands down. It’s not even close. His is a solid ten out of ten.

Really. It was remarkable.

But it’s not just his confidence or his muscles or his really quite wonderful penis. It’s the glimmers of another side to him I’ve spotted beneath his swagger.

Carrying Mrs Dunlop’s shopping upstairs for her. Sending Mara Ellis to my shop and asking her to keep his name out of it. Telling Innes he’d look out for him at the fight, then actually doing it. And standing in the shop yesterday with his fists clenched at his sides, looking ready to take the West End apart brick by brick because somebody hurt me.

That’s the man I asked to get to know a little better.

And he said no. Well, he said ef’s sake, but the meaning was the same.

I wish that were enough to put me off. It should be.

But I still like him. I can’t help it. And that’s why this hurts as much as it does.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

RYAN

“What’s up wi’ you?”

I keep my eyes on the ceiling. I’m flat on my back with one knee hugged to my chest, counting down thirty seconds the way the therapist told me to. The massage has loosened my shoulders for the first time since Braehead. My ribs are still tender where Kovac caught me.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Aye, right.” Niamh drops onto the mat beside me, cross-legged, hands already wrapped. She’s doing pads with Davie in ten minutes. Me, I’m not allowed to do much of anything till my stitches are out and I’ve been cleared. I came in for a sports massage, and I’ve been sent out here with a list of stretches to do.

I switch legs and start the count again.

“You bit Liam’s head off for saying good morning to you,” Niamh points out.

“He didnae say good morning. He said, ‘Morning, Grandad.’”

“He says shit like that all the time.”

She’s right. He does. Usually I tell him to fuck off without any bite to it. Today I told him to fuck off and meant it.

“I’m sore,” I say. “That’s all.”

“Bollocks. I know you too well, Ry. So, I’m gonnae ask you again: what’s up wi’ you?”

I set my leg down and sit up. At the other end of the gym, two of the youth lads are on the heavy bags. The steady thump of gloves against leather carries over the music.

“Briony came up to mine last night,” I say. “For a self-defence lesson.”

“Aye, Emmy mentioned that would be happening.”