Page 20 of Home Grown Talent

Too late. With a rush, like a milk pan boiling over, nausea surged. Mason staggered, pressing a hand over his mouth. “Going to be sick.”

“Okay,” Owen said, calm and no-nonsense. “Bathroom for you.” With one hand on Mason’s back and the other at his elbow, he guided him quickly through the maze of couples and tables to the toilets.

Thank God, they were empty.

“How do you feel?” Owen asked once they were inside. “Are you really going to be sick?”

Mason squinted in the bright light, catching a glimpse of his ghastly pallor in the floor to ceiling mirrors. He looked like shit. “No… maybe.” Abruptly, that changed—“Yes”—and he dived for one of the cubicles as an acid rush of bile heaved up his throat.

And then he was kneeling on the hard tile floor, retching and coughing into the toilet. He felt like death. This was so fucking mortifying. And he could do nothing but crouch there, clinging to the toilet like a life raft, as his stomach heaved and heaved.

Outside the cubicle, he was aware of Owen pacing. Then he heard the outside door open, laughing voices, and Owen speaking to someone, telling them to find a different set of toilets. Thank fuck. He did not need any witnesses. One was bad enough.

A few moments later, he felt a presence at his side. From the corner of his eye, through a veil of damp hair, he saw Owen’s polished shoes appear. Helplessly, Mason heaved again, all but sobbing in misery and humiliation, but then a warm hand came to rest on his back, another sweeping the hair off his sweaty forehead.

“You’re okay, petal,” Owen murmured. “You’ll feel better in a minute. Then we’ll get you some water.”

Bloody hell, had an angel descended from on high? Mason almost laughed at his own absurdly grateful reaction.

“Wanna go home,” he whimpered, before heaving again.

“Yeah, I know,” Owen said soothingly. “I’ll take you home.” A pause, then, “Unless you’d rather Jay—”

“No. Christ, no. Not after that fucking fiasco in the bar.” He groaned and looked pleadingly at Owen. “I can’t face them right now. Would you take me… Please?”

“All right,” Owen said simply, rubbing comforting circles on Mason’s back. After a couple more minutes of on-off retching, his stomach was finally empty.

The relief was enormous.

“Here,” Owen said then, handing him a wad of paper towels to wipe his mouth and stepping back as Mason climbed shakily to his feet, flushing the toilet before turning around. He felt dismal but, if not quite sober, at least less wretched than before.

“Fuck,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Owen said gently. Was he always so fucking gentle? “Come on. Wash your hands and face.”

Glancing down at himself, Mason was grateful that he’d at least managed to avoid getting vomit on his clothes. He sloshed water on his face, rinsed his mouth, and washed his hands. When he looked up, dabbing his face dry with a paper towel, he stared at his pallid reflection. The Masculin mascara and eyeliner he’d put on had smudged and smeared into dark circles around his eyes. “I look like crap,” he said, pushing a hand through his wrecked and sweaty hair.

“You look fine,” Owen assured him. “Pretty hot, actually, for someone who just puked his guts up in the toilets of a Mayfair hotel.”

Mason almost smiled.

Owen said, “Do you want to go back to the table before we leave?”

“Do you think I should?”

Owen’s expression softened. “Not if you don’t want to, no. I can fetch your jacket and take care of everything while you wait in reception.”

Thank God. He really couldn’t face anyone looking like this; what would they think? What would Misty think? It was bad enough that Owen Hunter had witnessed his humiliation without wrecking his nascent TV career into the bargain. “That would be amazing, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Owen put a hand on Mason’s back again, large and warm and comforting, guiding him towards the door. “Come on, let’s get you home...”

CHAPTER SIX

Mason

Sooner than Mason would have thought possible, he found himself slumped in the back of a black cab, eyes closed, trying to quiet his unhappy stomach as they inched through south London’s busy Saturday night traffic.

And trying to ignore the warm presence of Owen by his side.