Chapter eight #2
Marcus’s eyes went wide and he nearly choked on his sandwich. Marcus swallowed quickly. ‘Christine, sorry. You didn’t get to meet Rowan properly at the pub. This is Rowan. Rowan, this is Christine, my landlady, neighbour, salon queen and unofficial supervisor.’
Christine came into the room. ‘So how long has this arrangement been going on?’
Rowan’s brow pulled together. ‘Me helping out, you mean?’
‘Of course. What else would I mean?’
‘Just today.’
Christine smiled sweetly. ‘Good Lord, he needed it. He’s been trying to be a martyr this past week, almost making himself ill as well. And where would that have got him?’
Rowan looked from Christine to Marcus. ‘He’s also decorating his house.’
Marcus watched Christine’s confused expression. He knew exactly what she would be thinking right now—how did Rowan know about that before she did, if they weren’t an item.
‘Rowan happened to be walking past my house when I was scraping the loose paint from the front door, that’s when he offered to help in here.’
Christine threw her hands up. ‘Don’t worry. This is not an inquisition. I’m just making friendly chit-chat. It’s nice to be able to catch you for five minutes. I feel like I haven’t seen much of you lately.’
Marcus smiled. ‘How’s things in the salon?’
Christine leaned against the doorframe, her smile turning mischievous. ‘Honestly, Marcus, the whole bay has gone dog-competition mad. I had Mrs Calloway in yesterday asking whether I thought Beau’s pink bowtie would clash with her coral blouse.’
Marcus nearly choked again. ‘Please tell me you advised against pink.’
‘I told her Beau would look handsome whatever he wore.’
‘Diplomatic.’
‘Professional,’ Christine corrected. Her eyes slid towards Rowan, who was rinsing his mug in the small sink of the tearoom, as if he had been part of the place for years rather than one morning. ‘Something you could learn from me.’
Marcus widened his eyes. ‘I am the very soul of diplomacy.’
Rowan made a small sound. It was not quite a laugh. But it was close enough to make Marcus’s attention snap to him.
Christine noticed, of course. Christine noticed everything. Her smile softened in a way that made Marcus suddenly very interested in the crust of his sandwich.
‘Well,’ she said, pushing herself away from the doorframe, ‘I’ll leave you two to it. I’ve got a perm waiting and, unlike some people, I can’t distract my clients with dog treats and charm.’
‘That’s because your clients would ask for a discount.’
‘Exactly.’ Christine gave Rowan a pleasant nod. ‘Nice to meet you properly, Rowan.’
‘You too,’ Rowan said.
‘And thank you for helping him. He won’t say it, but he needed it.’
Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but Christine lifted a hand. ‘Don’t waste your breath, love. I’ve known you long enough.’
Then she disappeared back into the salon, leaving the faint scent of hairspray and peppermint tea in her wake.
For a second, silence filled the shared space.
Marcus became painfully aware of Rowan standing only a few feet away, sleeves pushed up, forearms damp from washing mugs, expression unreadable as always.
‘She seems protective,’ Rowan said.
Marcus finished chewing before answering. ‘Christine? She likes to pretend she isn’t, but yes. Very. She took me in when I needed somewhere for Ruff to Regal. I think that gives her permanent rights to fuss.’
‘You let her.’
Marcus looked up.
Rowan was watching him carefully.
There it was again. That habit Rowan had of saying very little and somehow scraping directly against something tender.
Marcus gave a small shrug. ‘It’s easier than arguing.’
‘Is it?’
‘With Christine? Absolutely.’ He brushed crumbs from his fingers and reached for the appointment book. ‘Right. Afternoon chaos awaits.’
As if summoned by the word chaos, the bell above the front door tinkled.
Marcus glanced at the clock. ‘That’ll be Daisy.’
‘The one who hates ears being touched?’ asked Rowan.
Marcus looked at him in surprise. ‘You remembered?’
Rowan’s brows lifted faintly. ‘You wrote it in capital letters with three exclamation marks.’
‘That does sound like me.’
They walked back into the parlour together.
A woman in a yellow sundress stood just inside the door, holding the lead of a small cream cockapoo who was doing her level best to press herself behind her owner’s legs.
Daisy’s dark eyes flicked from Marcus to Rowan, then to the grooming tables, then to the door behind her, as if calculating the quickest escape route.
‘Hello, Daisy,’ Marcus said brightly, then softened his voice when the dog shrank back. ‘Oh, sweetheart. Not feeling brave today?’
‘She’s been funny all morning,’ Daisy’s owner said. ‘I think she knows where she is.’
‘Clever girl,’ Marcus said.
The woman blinked.
He smiled. ‘Dogs always know more than we think they do. Don’t worry, Mrs Hargreaves. We’ll take it slowly.’
He reached for Daisy’s lead, but paused when he noticed Rowan watching the little dog’s body language.
‘What do you think? Are you seeing something I’m not?’ Marcus asked quietly.
Mrs Hargreaves looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected anyone else to be consulted.
Rowan crouched, not too close, his movement slow and controlled. ‘She’s not aggressive. She’s overwhelmed. She’s looking for somewhere to hide because everything in here is too open for her.’
Marcus looked around the parlour. He had never thought of it that way. To him, the space was bright, practical and cheerful. To a nervous dog, perhaps it was all angles and sounds and nowhere safe.
‘We can use the corner by the towel shelves,’ Marcus said. ‘It’s quieter there.’
Rowan nodded once. ‘And no lifting her straight away. Let her move there herself.’
Mrs Hargreaves looked between them. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
Marcus smiled, but this time he didn’t make it too bright. ‘She will be. We’re going to make the appointment fit Daisy, rather than forcing Daisy to fit the appointment.’
Something shifted in Rowan’s face.
Only a fraction.
But Marcus saw it.
They worked together in a rhythm that surprised him. Marcus kept up a gentle stream of nonsense for Mrs Hargreaves’s benefit, because nervous owners often made nervous dogs worse. Rowan said very little, but when he did speak, it mattered.
‘Pause.’
Marcus paused.
‘She’s about to turn her head.’
Daisy turned her head.
Marcus almost laughed with delight. ‘You’re annoyingly good at this.’
‘Annoyingly?’
‘That was the important word, yes.’
Rowan’s mouth twitched.
They let Daisy sniff the towel first. Then the brush. Then Marcus’s fingers. He did not attempt her ears until she had stopped trembling quite so much, and even then, he only cleaned around them instead of forcing the full groom.
Mrs Hargreaves seemed surprised when Marcus said they were finished.
‘But you haven’t done everything.’
‘No,’ Marcus said. ‘But she’s leaving calmer than she arrived. That matters more today. Don’t worry, I’ll only charge for what I did.’
Rowan glanced at him.
Mrs Hargreaves looked down at Daisy, who was now sitting beside her instead of hiding behind her legs. ‘I suppose she does seem better.’
‘Bring her back next week for a short ear-only appointment,’ Marcus said, scribbling a note on a card. ‘Ten minutes. No bath. No full groom. Just a hello, a treat, and a tiny bit more confidence.’
Rowan leaned over the appointment book and added a note in tidy handwriting.
Marcus tried not to stare at his hand.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
By the time Daisy left, tail low but wagging, Marcus felt oddly triumphant. It had not been a perfect groom. It had not been a glossy before-and-after transformation. But it had been better. Kinder.
‘You were right,’ he said.
Rowan wiped down the small table Daisy had been standing near. ‘About what?’
‘The parlour. It’s open. Bright. Practical for me, but not necessarily comforting for the clients.’
Rowan straightened. ‘You noticed.’
‘Try not to look so shocked. I do occasionally absorb information.’
‘I wasn’t shocked.’
‘That is your shocked face.’
‘I don’t have a shocked face.’
‘No, you have one face for, mildly unimpressed and another for severely unimpressed. I’m learning the difference.’
Rowan looked at him for a long moment.
Then, to Marcus’s astonishment, he smiled.
Not a twitch. Not the ghost of something he might deny later.
A real smile.
Small, yes. Brief, absolutely. But real.
Marcus forgot what he was holding.
Unfortunately, what he was holding was Daisy’s water bowl.
It tipped just enough to slosh water over the front of his jeans.
Rowan looked down.
Marcus looked down too.
There was a pause.
‘Not a word,’ Marcus said.
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You were thinking it very loudly.’
‘I was thinking you may want to stand further away from water bowls.’
‘Helpful. Thank you.’
The bell tinkled again before Rowan could answer.
Bertie arrived in a whirlwind of enthusiasm, pulling his owner behind him and wagging with such force that his entire body curved into a comma. Marcus barely had time to greet him before the spaniel launched himself at Marcus’s knees.
‘Bertie, darling, no,’ his owner cried.
‘It’s all right,’ Marcus said, laughing as Bertie’s paws skidded down his thighs. ‘Hello to you too, handsome. Full of beans today?’
Bertie answered by trying to lick his chin.
Rowan stepped closer, not interfering, simply observing. ‘He’s not nervous.’
‘No,’ Marcus said, wrestling gently with the lead. ‘Bertie’s problem is that he thinks everyone alive has been put on earth specifically to celebrate him.’
‘A reasonable belief,’ Rowan said.
Marcus grinned. ‘Don’t encourage him.’
Bertie’s groom was the exact opposite of Daisy’s. Where Daisy had needed stillness, Bertie needed patience, humour and the occasional tactical pause while he attempted to sit on Marcus’s foot, kiss Rowan’s sleeve, and inspect the treat jar with criminal intent.
By three o’clock, the parlour was warm, faintly damp, and filled with the comforting bustle Marcus loved when he wasn’t carrying it alone. The dryer hummed. Towels turned in the machine. Rowan’s notes formed a neat pile beside the appointment book, each one practical and precise.
Milo: dryer from a distance first. Owner to wait outside if possible. Responds to lower voice.
Daisy: corner space. Short appointments. No forced ear handling.
Bertie: high excitement. Give job before touching paws. Treat scatter works.
Marcus read them while Bertie’s owner paid.
‘These are brilliant,’ he said quietly.
Rowan shrugged. ‘They’re observations.’
‘Useful observations.’
‘That’s generally the point of observations.’
Marcus smiled down at the notes. ‘Georgina will love these.’
‘You should use them too.’
Marcus looked up. ‘I will.’
Rowan held his gaze for a second too long. ‘Good.’
The bell rang again.
Marcus turned with his customer smile already in place.
A woman he recognised from two villages over, stepped inside, with a sleek little terrier tucked beneath one arm and a handbag tucked beneath the other.
She was one of those customers who always looked immaculate and always managed to make Marcus feel as if there was dog hair somewhere inappropriate on his person.
‘Mrs Fenwick,’ he said. ‘Lovely to see you. And hello, Rupert.’
Rupert growled.
‘Still not a morning person, I see,’ Marcus said brightly, though it was very much afternoon.
Mrs Fenwick gave a thin smile. ‘I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a rush today, Marcus. Just a quick trim around the face and paws. Nothing too dramatic.’
‘Of course.’
She looked past him towards Rowan. ‘New assistant?’
Marcus kept his smile steady. ‘Rowan is helping me today while Georgina is off ill.’
‘How nice.’ Her gaze returned to Marcus, sweeping over his damp jeans, rolled sleeves and the strand of hair that had escaped across his forehead.
‘You do always seem to manage, don’t you?
Always smiling, always joking. I don’t know how you keep up all that cheerfulness.
’ She gave a small laugh. ‘I’d be exhausted pretending to be that jolly all day. ’
The words landed lightly.
That was the worst part.
They were not meant to wound. Not really. They were careless, tossed into the room like loose change.
Marcus’s smile stayed in place because it always did.
‘Ah, well,’ he said, reaching for Rupert’s lead. ‘Years of practice.’
Behind him, the towel Rowan had been folding went still.
Mrs Fenwick did not seem to notice. ‘I suppose it’s part of the service, isn’t it? The little performance. Dogs, jokes, sparkle. It must work wonders with the customers.’
Marcus opened his mouth.
No joke arrived.
Rowan placed the folded towel on the counter with careful precision.
‘It isn’t a performance,’ he said.
Mrs Fenwick blinked, turning towards him. ‘Sorry?’
Rowan’s expression was calm, but something in his voice had changed. It was low. Controlled. Absolute.
‘He’s kind,’ Rowan said. ‘There’s a difference.’
The parlour went very quiet.
Marcus felt the words hit somewhere beneath his ribs.
Mrs Fenwick gave a small, awkward laugh. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Most people don’t,’ Rowan said.
That was all.
No drama. No raised voice. No grand declaration.
Just Rowan standing there in Ruff to Regal, defending something Marcus had spent years pretending did not need defending.
Marcus looked down at Rupert, who had stopped growling and was now sniffing Marcus’s shoe.
For once, Marcus had no joke ready.