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Well, those are certainly not the words I’d have chosen. It’s not as though there was any danger of another man going near my ahem anyway. But Ryan promising that his penis is mine and mine alone? The jealousy that twisted through me at the crossing is gone, replaced by a glow of satisfaction I’m not proud of.

I rather like the thought of his penis being mine. It is a particularly nice penis.

“I think I could be amenable to that arrangement,” I say.

Ryan pulls back from me and grins. “Good.”

Suddenly, seeing his penis again seems rather urgent. It is now my property, after all. It’s only natural I’d want to check up on it. Unfortunately, the next few days are jam-packed.

“How about dinner at mine on Sunday?” I say. “I’ll be able to relax once the big wedding is out of the way.”

“You’ll be knackered. Let me take you out instead. Save you cooking.”

“No, honestly, I’d like to make you something.” And I’d also quite like to see your penis, I think but don’t say aloud. “Let’s do something quiet. Just the two of us.”

His mouth curves. “Aye? Well, if you’re sure, count me in.”

We walk the last little bit to the shop. At the door, Ryan says, “Right, Sunday it is. But before you go, do I get to kiss you?”

I smile. “Yes, Ryan. You may kiss me.”

He cups my jaw and presses his lips to mine. It’s slow and sure, and it goes on long enough that I forget I’m standing outside my shop clutching a dog lead. I curl my free hand into the front of his T-shirt and hold on.

The bell tinkles.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Emmy says, not sounding the least bit sorry. “But your twelve o’clock is here, Briony. And she’s watching.”

I let go of Ryan’s T-shirt and turn. A woman with a handbag over her arm is standing just inside the shop, looking out at us with great interest.

Oh dear.

“Sunday,” I say to Ryan.

“Sunday,” he repeats, shooting me a wink.

I straighten my top and take Penny inside to meet my twelve o’clock.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

RYAN

“Just turn the bottle a little. Label towards me.”

I turn it.

“Perfect. And now take a drink.”

I take a drink—again—and pray my contribution to the world of advertising is nearly complete.

The guy behind the camera studies the screen, then gives a thumbs-up. “Brilliant. That’s us.”

Thank Christ. To be fair, I really shouldn’t complain, considering what Titan Fuel pay me to appear in their ad campaigns. And compared to taking a beating in a cage, it’s easy money. But I never feel entirely comfortable doing this stuff. Being filmed during an actual fight? Fine. Acting for the camera, and sipping a sports drink over and over in very slightly different ways? No, thanks.

It’s been a small-scale affair today—some social media content for Titan Fuel to use. Me at Glasgow Fight Club, doing a bit of light training, with plenty of shots of me drinking Titan Fuel in between. No big lighting setup like you get in a studio. It’s still been a ball ache to film, though. Worse in a way, because at least in a studio you don’t have the other gym lads looking over at you and sniggering while you’re sipping from a bottle for the fiftieth time.

“We’ll tag you when it goes live,” the woman from Titan Fuel says while the cameraman packs his gear away. “If you could give it a share, that’d be great.”

“Aye, nae bother.”