Page 10 of Home Grown Talent

They began to weave their way through the tables. After a minute, Owen spotted Toni waving at them. She looked striking in a burgundy gown with a plunging neckline. A neckline of obvious interest to the mildly attractive middle-aged man sitting next to her who seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes on her face as they talked.

There were two other couples at the table, Owen saw, as they got closer. The first was a complacent-looking pair who Owen reckoned were in their sixties. The woman’s hair was cut in a pageboy style from another era. She wore a frumpy lilac evening dress with a pie-frill collar. Her companion rocked a receding hairline and gold-rimmed glasses. That had to be Henry Armitage and his wife.

The other pair were two women, one much younger than the other, so it seemed the hedge fund manager husband was not in attendance. They didn’t look like friends, though. Their vibe was very much boss and underling. The older woman had long, blonde hair and wore a slinky, full-length gold dress. She was talking while the younger one typed industriously on an iPad. The younger woman was dressed more demurely in a black velvet dress with a single strand of pearls round her throat and a slim Alice band decorated with pearl beads holding back her black hair. Despite the velvet and pearls, the outfit looked curiously uniform-like.

There were six empty chairs at the table waiting to be claimed, and as Owen’s party drew closer, he saw their last two table companions closing in from the opposite direction: Jay Warren and Mason Nash, glasses of champagne in hand—they must have made it to the pre-dinner drinks reception then.

Owen’s mouth went dry, his heart pounding insanely. Why was he so bloody nervous?

Jay led the way to their table. Like nearly every other man in the room, he wore a classic black tux. Of course, his tux was probably custom-made. It certainly seemed to be perfectly tailored to his tall, well-made frame. Not like Owen’s, which, despite the salesman’s assurances, didn’t feel like it fitted quite as it should.

Mason followed in Jay’s wake, his body moving in that confident, loose-limbed way models used as they stalked down the catwalk. And fuck if he didn’t make every other man in the room look stuffy and overdressed. He hadn’t bothered with a tux or even a tie. His velvet suit was a rich, deep blue, and he wore the jacket open to display a slim-fitting shirt that was a riot of tulips and dog roses. His pale hair was swept back from his flawless features, his spectacular eyes framed by lush lashes. Owen couldn’t see from this distance, but he knew those eyes were a vivid summer green, the colour of life and growing things.

He was a vibrant splash of colour in an ocean of monochrome. And sexy as hell.

Lewis, who was a couple of paces ahead, turned to raise a brow at Owen and his expression—God damn him—was amused. He winked, and Owen glared back at him.

Moments later, they reached the table. Lewis and Jay shook hands in a familiar way, laughing like friends. Then Lewis leaned in to Mason, saying something Owen couldn’t hear that made Mason smile politely, if not particularly warmly.

Owen hung back, letting Aaron and Tag move forward next to greet Jay and Mason, only stepping closer when they were done.

“You remember my brother, Owen?” Lewis said, clapping Owen on the shoulder.

“Of course,” Jay said warmly, offering his hand.

Owen took it. “Actually, we haven't met,” he clarified with a smile. “I think Lewis was talking to Mason.”

Jay flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, sorry,” he said. "I meet a lot of people. It's difficult to keep track sometimes.”

Tag gave a little bark of humourless laughter at that, and Jay shot him a sharp look.

“It’s fine, honestly,” Owen said, unoffended.

“Well,” Jay said. “You’re very lucky to have Lewis as a brother. He’s a good friend and an incredible writer.” He laughed before adding, “I mean, obviously, I’m a beneficiary of his amazingness, so I would say that.”

“Yes,” Owen agreed, smiling back. “He certainly got the talent in our family.”

Mason sighed loudly at that and rolled his eyes. “And you’ve still got a modesty fetish, I see.”

Christ, he was a brat! Owen felt his lips twitching but suppressed the smile, raising a single eyebrow instead.

When Jay glanced between them questioningly, Mason said, “Owen’s an amazing landscape gardener. He did Terry Prescott’s place—do you know Terry? The photographer?”

“Yeah?” Jay said, scrambling on an expression of polite interest.

“Yeah, God forbid he blow his own trumpet, though,” Mason went on before Owen could respond. “He’s not a fan of shameless self-promotion, are you, Owen?”

Owen blinked, surprised and a little confused by that comment, but then his attention was stolen by Tag tugging at his sleeve and saying, “I think we need to take our seats.”

Murmuring an ‘excuse me’, Owen turned dutifully back to the table. Lewis was already taking the seat next to Toni, Aaron settling into the empty one beside him. Tag bent to examine the place cards.

“Looks like we’re here,” he said, taking the seat beside Aaron and patting the one on his left for Owen. As Owen began to lower himself into the chair, he glimpsed the place card in front of the seat next to his own: Mason Nash.

Well, hell.

If he was a superstitious man, he might think it was fate, but he wasn’t superstitious. Nope, definitely not. Besides, Mason was here with Jay—a famous, successful actor—and he barely knew Owen existed.

“He’s an amazing landscape gardener. He did Terry Prescott’s place…”