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 becausehewas 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.’
