She rolled her eyes.

‘Shoeing neds is back-breaking. Flynn don’t smell great, neither.’

Ash, by contrast, smelled fantastic, all that mint and testosterone seeing off her bathroom’s ageing reed diffuser. She sniffed appreciatively.

He tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. ‘You’ll do. You can talk now.’

Belligerently, Bridge said nothing.

‘You’re a funny one.’ The corners of his lips curled just slightly – or it could be a trick of the light. His face had a mask-like quality, as though his feelings were buried deeper than an arms dump. ‘C’mon, say something so I can see this lip move.’

‘Like what?’

‘Whatever uses it. F words are good.’

‘You want me to talk dirty?’

‘Consonants that make your smackers pop: B, P, F, M, W.’ He pronounced them phonetically, his lip movements exaggerated.

‘All right, Henry Higgins,’ she laughed. ‘Body perfect farriers make women horny.’

‘That a fact?’ He was giving her that look again, the one that made all her forbidden bits prickle.

‘Too right it’s a fecking fact. Look at myths right back through history from the Iron Age, and you’ll find the blacksmith’s always bang there at the centre; bang, bang, bang on his anvil, the big hero, seeing off the devil, shoeing the gods’ horses or making kings’ magical swords. Why do you think we strike while the iron’s hot and go at it hammer and tongs? I don’t want to ride roughshod over your plans, Ash, or see you with too many irons in the fire, but let’s cut to the quick, farriers were the first mortal celebrities and superheroes – still are round here. Great arses, big trucks, cute dogs, all fire and sparks and wads of cash. If you want your average Cotswold wife at your feet offering you riches, forget being a personal trainer, shoe her fecking horse. Your wife’s not wrong. Even your name’s fecking perfect, Ash. You could make a killing round here, the war hero in the leather apron. Shame you can’t see it.’

‘Okay, you can stop talking now.’ He gave a quick smile and a dismissive nod.

‘Sure?’ She felt she was just getting into her stride.

‘It’s holding fine. You always that gobby? Should have glued your lips together.’

‘You can fuck off.’ Feeling her face grow hot, realising she must have banged on wildly, Bridge reached up to her mouth with tentative fingers. Whilst still trout-pout swollen, it was remarkably smooth.

‘Kissable…’ Ash admired his handiwork with the detachment of a tattooist who’s just inked MUM on a bicep.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said with feeling. ‘That’s amazing. How much do I owe you?’

‘Let’s say it’s a favour I’ll call back in.’

‘Any time.’

‘I’d better get going.’ As he stood up, the shower curtain shifted and, with a clatter, Aleš’s favourite sex toy was knocked into the bath, a shiny purple anal plug.

Ash raised his perfect pierced eyebrow once more.

‘Rubber duck.’ Bridge brazened it out, springing up to lead the way out through the bathroom door.