Page 21 of Home Grown Talent

Not that they were touching or anything. Owen had carefully fastened Mason’s seatbelt after he’d flailed around trying to find the bloody thing in the dark and then retreated to his side of the cab and fastened his own seatbelt. Even so, his presence filled the silence between them.

Christ, he must think Mason was such a fucking loser.

What kind of idiot got himself so plastered that he puked at an awards dinner where he was meant to be schmoozing his way into a job?

Mason Nash, ladies and gentlemen.

His internal groan of dismay must have escaped because Owen said, “You okay? Do you need us to stop?”

“No.”

“Because it’s better to say something if you’re going to puke again.”

“I’m fine. I’m not going to puke.”

From the front of the cab, the driver made a disgruntled noise.

“So, tell me,” Owen said quickly, in a hearty ‘I’m distracting him from puking’ tone of voice, “what’s your take on this TV gardening thing Misty was on about? Is it…?” He sounded doubtful. “Is it really something you’re interested in doing? No offence, but you don’t strike me as the gardening type.”

Mason rolled his head sideways on the headrest and peeled open one eye to look at Owen, grateful that at least the horrible spinning had abated. In the orange glare of the passing streetlights, he studied Owen’s face. There was something of Lewis there—you could tell they were related—but they really were quite different. Owen’s hair was a warm, nut-brown rather than Lewis’s severe sable, and he was bulkier than his brother in an honest, wholesome sort of way. He looked like a man who used and enjoyed his body rather than a man who honed it at the gym, and Mason liked that. Owen’s nose had a slight bump in it too, as if he’d broken it at some point. Lewis’s face had no such imperfections.

The biggest difference was the eyes, though. Not so much the shape or the colour, though Owen’s were a lighter blue. No, it was the expression. Owen’s gaze was kind. Gentle even…

Mason blinked. What the hell was he thinking?

Jesus. Get a grip.

Forcing himself to sit up straighter, he said, “You’re right. I’m not the gardening type.” And then he added, bluntly, honestly, “But I’d do pretty much anything for a regular slot on that show. Or any show. I’ve been trying to get into TV for ages.”

Great, now he sounded desperate. Drunk and desperate. What an alluring combination.

And why the fuck would Owen ever agree to do the show with him now, after seeing Mason at his worst, throwing up in a hotel toilet?

Just then, the car braked sharply, and his stomach lurched up into his throat. He clamped his mouth shut and covered it with his hands.

“It’s okay. We’re nearly there,” Owen soothed as Mason breathed determinedly through the wave of nausea. “Just another couple more minutes according to Google Maps.” He smiled reassuringly, little lines crinkling around his eyes.

God, he really did have ever such nice eyes.

Ugh, of all the people to see Mason like this, why did it have to be Owen? And why tonight, when long-awaited opportunity had finally come knocking?

Mason closed his eyes and let his body move with the car’s motion.

He must have drifted off a bit because when Owen touched his knee lightly, he jack-knifed up, blinking confusedly for a moment.

“We’re here,” Owen said softly.

Sure enough, the cab was turning into the small parking area in front of Mason’s building on Clapham Common North Side. The common itself opened up into a dark expanse of night on the other side of the road, his own building half obscured by a line of trees.

“Anywhere is fine,” Mason told the cabby, struggling to undo his seatbelt. At least he was feeling slightly less pissed now, although with returning lucidity came deepening mortification.

To Owen he said, “I’m sorry I fucked up your evening. Maybe if you head straight back, you and Tag can still—”

“Tag’s fine. He wasn’t my date,” Owen said, undoing his own seatbelt. “Besides, I don’t fancy spending what remains of the evening watching him and Jay squabbling—or whatever it is they think they’re doing.” He glanced at the cabby, at the still-running meter, and lowered his voice. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to come in and make sure you’re okay before I head home.”

The cabby snorted, somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

Owen ignored him, although he ran a self-conscious hand through his mop of hair. “You’re still white as a sheet, and I don’t want to leave you alone until I know you’re okay.”