Chapter fourteen #2
Marcus watched Jack’s brow lift, as realisation dawned on him. ‘You’re right, Rowan. Thanks for pointing that out.’ Jack turned to Marcus. ‘Can I catch up with you about the other safety points later? That exit needs to be addressed immediately.’
Marcus nodded. ‘Sure, I’ll catch you later.’
Marcus watched Jack stride away, already calling for Tom, who was wrestling with a roll of bunting near the main marquee.
Rowan stood beside Marcus for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the stall by the exit route. Atlas waited quietly at his side, ears alert, body watchful but calm.
‘Good spot,’ Marcus said.
Rowan gave a small shrug. ‘It might never matter.’
‘But if it did, it would matter a lot.’
Rowan looked at him then, and something softened around his eyes. ‘Exactly.’
Marcus’s chest warmed.
Before he could say anything else, a familiar voice bellowed from the top of the beach steps.
‘Where d’you want all this lot, then?’
Marcus turned to see Old Po making his way carefully down the steps, carrying a cardboard box as if it contained royal treasure. Behind him, two younger men Marcus vaguely recognised from the pub followed with coils of rope, wooden stakes, cable ties, and several hand-painted signs.
Marcus hurried towards him. ‘Po! You shouldn’t be carrying all that yourself.’
Old Po gave him a look over the top of his spectacles. ‘Lad, I’ve been carrying things heavier than this since before you were a twinkle in anyone’s eye.’
‘That doesn’t make it a good idea.’
‘No, but it makes it likely I’ll ignore you.’
Marcus laughed and took the box from him anyway. Inside were rolls of tape, spare pegs, clipboards, chalk, marker pens, laminated arrows, and a battered tin labelled emergency bits and bobs.
‘What’s in that?’ Marcus asked, pointing at the tin.
‘Emergency bits and bobs.’
‘Of course.’
Old Po tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never run an event without emergency bits and bobs. That’s where amateurs fall down.’
Rowan stepped closer, studying the signs. ‘These are good. Clear. Simple.’
Old Po looked him up and down, then nodded once, as if Rowan had passed some private test. ‘You’re the dog man, then.’
Rowan’s mouth twitched. ‘One of them.’
‘Good. You can tell me where these quiet-zone signs need going. Apparently, according to Christine, Marcus here gets excited and puts things where they look pretty.’
‘Rude,’ Marcus said with a smile.
‘Accurate,’ Rowan replied.
Marcus stared at him. ‘You two have known each other for eight seconds and already you’re forming an alliance?’
Old Po’s eyes twinkled. ‘Sensible folk recognise one another.’
The three of them carried the supplies towards the calm area.
The small quiet-zone marquee sat slightly back from the main bustle, exactly where Rowan had suggested, its opening angled away from the busiest part of the beach.
Marcus watched as Rowan walked the perimeter, not rushing, not speaking unless he needed to. When he did speak, people listened.
Jack shifted a safety cone after Rowan pointed out the lead traffic.
Tom moved a table without question.
Old Po hammered in two extra pegs and muttered that no marquee of his was going airborne unless the Lord Himself decided to take it.
Marcus stood in the middle of it all, clipboard pressed against his chest, and felt something strange open inside him.
Relief, maybe.
Or pride.
For days, he had thought accepting help meant admitting he couldn’t cope. But this didn’t feel like failure. It felt like Seagull Bay doing what Seagull Bay did best: gathering around, each person carrying a piece until the whole thing became possible.
And Rowan fitted into it.
That was the dangerous thought.
Rowan, with his quiet competence and careful eyes. Rowan, who noticed blocked exits and nervous dogs and Marcus’s silences. Rowan, who had kissed him in the parlour and then turned up at his front door with sandpaper as if showing up could be practical as well as romantic.
Marcus looked across the beach and found him talking to Jack near the exit route. Atlas sat beside him, calm as anything while tourists passed along the seafront above.
It was absurdly easy to imagine him staying.
Too easy.
Marcus turned away and busied himself ticking items off his clipboard. Dog blessings tent. Refreshments. Quiet zone. Safety stall. Haunted hounds tour. Entry table. Rosettes. Water station.
For once, the list was not terrifying.
Then Rowan’s voice drifted towards him, carried on the sea breeze.
‘I’ll stay until the competition is finished,’ he was saying to Jack. ‘After that, it depends what happens with the next contract.’
Marcus’s pen stilled.
Jack said something Marcus couldn’t hear.
Rowan answered, quieter this time, but not quiet enough. ‘I was never meant to be in Seagull Bay for long.’
The words hit harder than Marcus expected.
He looked down at the clipboard until the neat black ticks blurred.
Never meant to be here for long.
Of course. He knew that. Rowan had told him. Temporary rental. Yorkshire contract. A house somewhere else. Marcus had no right to be surprised.
No right to feel as if someone had reached into his chest and pinched something tender.
Across the beach, Rowan laughed softly at something Jack said. Not much of a laugh. Barely one at all. But Marcus heard it because, apparently, he was already tuned to every impossible piece of the man.
He forced himself to tick the next box.
Rosettes.
There. Done.
A gust of wind lifted the corner of his paper, and Marcus pressed it flat with his palm.
He would not beg Rowan to stay.
He would not make himself easy to leave, either.
If Rowan wanted a place in Seagull Bay, in Marcus’s life, then Rowan would have to choose it.
Marcus lifted his chin and looked back across the beach, taking in the bunting, the marquees, the stalls, the people who had shown up because he had finally let them.
The competition was almost ready.
Now, apparently, so was his heart.
Ready to find out whether Rowan was brave enough to stay.