Chapter eight
Marcus arrived at Ruff to Regal forty minutes earlier than necessary and still felt late.
The parlour was dark when he unlocked the side gate, the alleyway quiet except for the distant cry of gulls and the soft clink of glass bottles being delivered somewhere along the seafront.
Seagull Bay had not fully woken. No tourists wandered past with sun cream on their noses.
No dogs strained at their leads towards Tammy’s Tearoom.
No Mrs Calloway hovered nearby, pretending not to gather information with the precision of a highly trained spy.
It should have been peaceful. Instead, Marcus’s stomach was performing a full tap routine.
He pushed open the door to Ruff to Regal, stepped inside, and flicked on the lights. The familiar scent of shampoo, clean towels and faint wet dog greeted him, and he stood still for a moment, trying to see the place through Rowan’s eyes, then through Atlas’s eyes.
Too bright? Maybe. He crossed to the main switch and turned off one row of overhead lights, leaving the parlour softer around the edges.
Too many smells? Definitely, but there was only so much one man could do about the natural atmosphere of a dog-grooming business.
He picked up yesterday’s towel basket anyway, shoved it into the laundry corner, then straightened the bottles on the shelf as if Rowan might object to coconut detangling spray being half an inch out of line.
Ridiculous.
Marcus looked around the room again.
Georgina’s grooming table was just behind his.
His stood in the centre, polished and waiting.
The bath gleamed beneath the light. Leads hung neatly from hooks.
Treat jars lined the counter. The appointment book sat open beside the phone, and the day ahead was already crowded with names, breeds, times and small notes he had written to himself in increasingly frantic handwriting.
Mrs Calloway’s Beau—claws only, DO NOT get trapped in gossip.
Milo—nervous with dryer.
Daisy—hates ears being touched.
Bertie—may wee if overexcited.
And beneath them all, in a space he had not officially booked because he did not quite know what to call it, he had written:
Rowan helping?
The question mark irritated him now.
Rowan had said he would come.
Marcus should trust that.
He checked his reflection in the darkened window and immediately wished he had not.
His hair was behaving well enough, swept back in the way that usually made customers tell him he looked ‘distinguished’, which was polite code for grey but making an effort.
His shirt was clean. His jeans had no visible dog hair on them yet, which felt like a minor miracle.
He leaned closer.
Was there still paint on his cheek?
After last night’s humiliation, he had scrubbed his face twice, but the memory of Rowan catching him scraping his front door, singing badly in a T-shirt that practically announced his orientation to the whole street, still had the power to make heat crawl up his neck.
Rowan had not laughed.
That was worse, somehow.
If he had laughed, Marcus could have laughed too. Turned it into a performance. Made himself bright and ridiculous and safe.
Instead, Rowan had looked at him as if he were something worth understanding. Was there something other than a start of a friendship happening between them? Or was he reading too much into small things because he was attracted to the mysterious Mr Blake?.
Marcus turned away from the window and headed for the shared tea room, and busied himself filling the kettle.
He had just set out two mugs when the faintest sound came from outside.
Marcus stuck his head out of the storeroom door and craned his neck. Not a knock. Not quite. He hurried into the parlour.
A pause.
Marcus knew it before he reached the door.
Rowan.
He wiped his hands down his jeans, took a breath, and opened it.
Rowan stood on the other side in a dark jacket, his expression unreadable in the soft morning light.
Alone.
Marcus’s gaze dropped automatically to the space beside his leg.
No Atlas.
Something in Rowan’s face tightened, as if he had noticed the look before Marcus could hide it.
‘He’s at home,’ Rowan said. ‘I decided not to rush him.’
Marcus nodded slowly. ‘That sounds sensible.’
‘It doesn’t feel sensible.’
The honesty caught him off guard.
Rowan looked past him into the parlour, then back at Marcus. ‘But it’s probably right.’
Marcus stepped aside. ‘Come in, then. Before I start rearranging the shampoo bottles again and pretending that counts as preparation.’
For the first time that morning, Rowan’s mouth almost smiled.
‘You’ve already done that, haven’t you?’
Marcus placed a hand dramatically against his chest. ‘I am wounded by how quickly you know me.’
Rowan stepped inside Ruff to Regal, and somehow, with Atlas absent, the room felt even smaller.
They both stood awkwardly for a moment staring at each other. Was Marcus imagining it, or was there a new kind of tension between them in Atlas’s absence?
Marcus couldn’t stand the sizzling dynamics dancing between them any longer. ‘Drink?’
The question seemed to pull Rowan out of a trance. He shook his head slightly, before nodding. ‘Coffee would be great. White, no sugar.’
Marcus nodded, offering a smile, as he wrestled to get his thundering heart under control as he turned around, then called back over his shoulder before disappearing through the door. ‘Turn the radio on if you like.’
In the tea room, Marcus switched the kettle on, then reached for the coffee jar. He spooned coffee into each mug, sprinkling granules around the mugs, his nerves getting the better of him. He looked down at his hand—it was trembling.
He needed to get a grip.
Yes, there was tall, dark and handsome standing in his parlour.
And yes, he was attracted to the tall, dark and handsome man, but he also had a busy day ahead of him. The last thing he needed to do was have a meltdown because he was crushing on the help—a client no less.
It took the time the kettle reached boiling to compose himself. When he walked back into the parlour carrying the mugs, Marcus had set a warm smile on his face, and had his professional head back on his shoulders.
‘Oh I love this tune.’
‘Am I going to be entertained again?’
Marcus’s jaw dropped open, and he feigned shock. ‘Entertained?! Yesterday wasn’t a cabaret performance for my neighbours, you know. I was positively locked in and working hard, decorating.’
Marcus could see a glimmer of humour behind Rowan’s eyes, and a ghost of a smile playing across his lips, but he was quick to move onto the reason why he was there.
‘What’s the plan? What do you want me to help out with today?
’ His features closed slightly before Marcus’s eyes, but then he realised why.
‘I know I may not be doing such a great job with Atlas, but I think that’s because of reasons due to his retirement.
I’m actually pretty good with difficult animals. ’
Marcus didn’t quite know how to respond. ‘Of... Of course you are. It must be very difficult, considering Atlas is also your pet.’ He paused as he thought. ‘How about if I give you some of the more challenging pets to wash?’
Rowan nodded. ‘Yes, I have no objections to that. I could also take notes and make suggestions for the dogs with behavioural issues, to help with their future appointments.’
‘A compiled list about the nervous dogs? Yes, that would be really useful. Especially for Georgina.’ Marcus couldn’t stop the enormous smile that erupted from taking over his face. He glanced up at the clock. ‘Where has the time gone? The first appointment will be here any moment.’
They just about had enough time to finish their coffees before Milo and Beau arrived with their owners.
Mrs Calloway’s eyes turned into saucers when she saw Rowan. ‘Good morning, Marcus. I thought Georgina worked here. She’s not been fired and replaced, has she?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘No, no, no, nothing of the sort, Mrs Calloway. Georgina is ill and Rowan has very kindly offered to help today because I’ve been rushed off my feet without her.
’ Marcus took Beau’s lead and bent down to pet him.
‘Hello there, boy, and welcome to your first appointment.’ He quickly looked back to Mrs Calloway, with an apologetic smile.
‘Sorry, I forgot to greet the owner. Good morning to you too, Mrs Calloway.’
Mrs Calloway looked quite put out, but Marcus was relieved it wasn’t about the missed greeting. ‘What’s wrong with Georgina? Tom never said she was ill when I spoke to him outside the florist yesterday.’
‘A virus I think, but she’s on the mend. She’s hoping to be back in a couple of days.’
‘Shall I make a start on Milo, Marcus?’
Marcus was grateful for the interruption. ‘Yes. Thank you, Rowan.’ He turned back to Mrs Calloway. ‘I’d better make a start myself, Mrs Calloway, otherwise I’ll soon have a backlog.’
Before waiting for an answer, Marcus led Beau towards his grooming table, changing his usual position at the table to be able to oversee Rowan.
Not that it looked like he needed help. He was managing Milo’s nerves magnificently, talking calmly with an authoritative edge to his voice that seemed to calm Milo.
Marcus could barely focus on Beau as he stared at Rowan’s powerful exposed forearms.
By midday, thanks to Rowan’s help, they were ahead of time, and even had time to spare to eat lunch—a luxury Marcus hadn’t enjoyed since Georgina had been off ill.
Marcus’s tummy growled as he bit into his cheese and pickle sandwich. He chuckled and covered his mouth as he apologised. ‘Sorry. I think my stomach’s excited because it’s actually getting to consume food midday. It’s been dinnertime before I’ve eaten for over a week now.’
Christine’s head appeared around the door, a smile brightening her face when she saw Rowan. ‘Hello again. Nice to meet you properly, Rowan. Marcus has kept you quiet.’