He put down the paint tin and hessian sand bags filled to the brim, deciding to leave the scraper on the floor at the side of the door, ready for some mindless prep work.
Thirty minutes later, after a quick dinner of fried egg, beans and cheese on toast washed down with a herbal tea, Marcus was dressed in some old clothes and had his air buds in, his favourite tunes turned right up, and the scraper in his hand.
He stood back and admired the cottage, a wide smile lighting up his face. This place was his. His name was on the mortgage,however, it still felt like Morgan’s. Most of his belongings were still in boxes. It was time to make it his own. Seagull Bay made him feel like he belonged, but until he got the cottage just the way he liked it, it still wouldn’t feel like home.
Home... Why did he see Rowan’s face when he said that word.
He thought of Rowan. Thought of how his insides had felt like they were alive when Rowan had looked at him the way he had done when he’d talked about the lorry crash.
The guitar intro started to one of his favourite tunes, and he began to sing along as he began scraping at the paint on the front door.
‘Well, I guess it would be nice, hmmm hmmm— hmmm your body, hmmm hmmm hmmm everybody hmmm hmmm hmmm like you...’
The sun was still high in the sky, warming his back, and tanning the back of his arms below the short edges of his T-shirt, as he danced and scraped away the loose, flaky paint, not a care in the world.
Marcus felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around still singing badly through a mouthful of nonsense lyrics, utterly committed to a tune he had no legal right to reproduce.
He stared into dark brown pools, immediately drowning in them.
Marcus snatched the ear buds from his ears. ‘Rowan, what... What are you doing here?’
Rowan’s eyes dropped to look at Marcus’s chest. ‘Nice T.’ Marcus followed Rowan’s eyes down. He’d put on his vintageRelaxT-shirt by mistake. He might as well have just lit up a sign above his head. Rowan wanted a sink hole to suddenly appear and swallow him up. Well if Rowan hadn’t picked up on the subtle hints he’d given him by now, now he knew.
‘I’m out for Atlas’s evening walk. I’m trying to get his claws to naturally file down on the pavement, until I can get them done properly at your place.’
‘That’s great.’ Marcus looked down at Atlas, who appeared to be sniffing the air.
Rowan gestured past Marcus.
‘Is this place yours?’ Rowan asked, looking up at the little cottage with its tired windows, peeling door and wisteria spilling over the frame like it was trying to make the place beautiful by sheer force of will.
Marcus glanced down at the scraper in his hand. ‘Apparently. Though at the moment it looks more like the house won custody of me.’
‘It’s lovely.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Well it will be. It needs a lot of TLC. I’ve been putting off doing the decorating. I’m always busy.’
‘You’d be moaning if you weren’t.’
‘I would, you’re right. But work always seems to come first.’
‘You’re allowed to build a life outside the business, you know.’
‘Whilst juggling balls?’ Marcus hadn’t meant the statement to sound the way it did.
Rowan’s mouth almost smiled. ‘You’re making a start, anyway.’
‘Trying to.’
‘That counts.’
Atlas lowered his nose to the gate and sniffed. Marcus didn’t move. He barely breathed.
Rowan watched him watching Atlas.
‘You’re learning,’ Rowan said quietly.
Marcus looked up. ‘About paint or Atlas?’
