Page 20 of Rules to Love By

“Dad—”

“Listen, son. This is a win-win.” He set the estimate on the counter and began ticking off his fingers with the mug as he spoke. “Marcus paints that back wall up fancy. Improves the lighting. Builds an attractive display area. We display our product. People buy it. Marcus gets paid for his efforts. And, you get your inventory. And maybe even improved storage in the dismal little room. So win-win-win.” He turned to Marcus. “What do you say?”

“I’m not sure what the offer is.”

“Seriously, Dad—”

“Let the man think it over, Eli. It’s his decision.”

The bell over the door rang again, and his father stepped into his barber persona as he headed for it. “And there’s my nine o’clock. Mr. Barrow, how are we today? Look at that hair. About time you kept an appointment, young man. You’ve got to get out and about more. We don’t see enough of you, you know.”

“‘Steven,’ Mr. Benson. It’s weird you calling me Mr. Barrow.”

Their voices faded into the background when Marcus cleared his throat. “What’s going on? Do I have the job, or what?”

Eli sighed. “Of course you have the job.” And since it absolutely was not his place to remove the option from Marcus, he waved at the bulging storeroom. “This is what he meant, expanding the scope.” He led the way over. “All of this.” His frantic hand gesture barely encompassed the extent of the bloated stock spilling from the narrow, tapered room under the stairs.

“That’s a lot.” As he studied the mess, he tugged at a curl at the nape of his neck. “Does he even know what’s here? How am I supposed to build a display for all of this?” He glanced to the back wall, then returned his gaze to the pile, expression doubtful.

“I’m thinking you don’t. Not all of it, anyway. But you’re right. We have to know what’s here before we can think about how to display it.”

“Why so much?”

“My guess? He sends Ambrose back here to get something, Ambrose doesn’t want to dig through the piles, so he just says they don’t have it and orders more.”

“God. My aunt would pitch a pot at my head if I tried that.”

“It’s no way to run a business, and while it hasn’t broken the bank yet, if Pops doesn’t get Ambrose under control, it will.”

“Ambrose. He the cousin you mentioned?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t think he can do it, why don’t you step in?”

“I’m no barber. And Ambrose is a lot more than just a barber. He’s actually a very good hairdresser and colourist. He can do all kinds of hair. From this kinky shit”—he pointed at his own head—“to that.” He pointed across the room, where Steven was shaking fine blond hair out of his eyes. “Men, women, kids. The guy’s a hair virtuoso. Almost as good as Dad, plus he can colour.”

“But not so much for the organization.”

“Not so much.”

“Why not be partners? You can manage the business. He can cut hair.”

“We don’t exactly get along.”

“Family.” Marcus nodded. “I get that. You have no idea.”

“And anyway, not like Dad’s retiring tomorrow or anything.”

The door’s bell chimed once more, and a tall, thin, angular figure sauntered in. “Hey, Uncle Ty.”

“Ambrose.”

“Speak of the devil,” Eli muttered.

“Sorry I’m late, Uncle. Hit snooze one too many times. And these boots. They are a bear to get into.”

“Just get your station set up. You have a colour in fifteen minutes.”

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