Page 22 of Home Grown Talent
“You don’t have to…” Mason began, but then he trailed off. Why not? Why not just let this nice, capable guy take care of him for a little bit? God knew it was what he wanted—hell, what he needed. That thought brought a sharp sting to his eyes, though he quickly blinked it away.
Owen pulled out a battered leather wallet and said to the cabby, “What’s the damage?”
Belatedly, Mason reached for his phone and fumbled open the payment app. “No, I’ll get this—”
Too late. The contactless reader pinged, and Owen got out of the cab with a friendly, “Cheers, mate!” for the driver.
Shit. Mason was still putting his phone away when Owen opened his door. “All right?” he said, offering a hand to help him out.
Fuck, was he for real?
Mason felt a little silly taking his hand, but again, he thought, Why not? And when Owen’s large hand closed over his own, his heart skipped at the sensation. Besides, the world did rather lurch when he stepped out of the cab and the cold night air slapped him in the face.
“Careful,” Owen murmured, setting his other hand on the small of Mason’s back to steady him. His touch was warm through the fine cotton of Mason’s shirt, provoking a little involuntary shiver. “You should put your jacket on,” Owen said as the cab pulled away. “It’s freezing.” Then he peered up at the terrace of substantial period houses, each one converted into flats. “Which one’s yours?”
Mason rummaged in his pocket for his keys. “It’s this one,” he said, heading for the second building to the left. His was the garden flat, with its own entrance accessed down a steep flight of stairs to the side of the front path.
Being in the basement meant the flat could be somewhat dark at times, but he’d taken it purely because he’d fallen in love with the glorious kitchen. Or, more accurately, with the potential of the glorious kitchen.
The distinctly unrealised potential.
“Let me go first,” Owen said, keeping hold of Mason’s hand as he went down the steep steps, steadying Mason as he followed. Christ, he was chivalrous. Any moment now he’d be laying his cloak over a puddle, and it was doing silly things to Mason’s insides.
The motion-activated security light flicked on as they reached the bottom step, revealing the tiny empty courtyard in front of Mason’s bedroom window. Mason wove towards the door, and maybe he was still quite drunk because the lock seemed to be bobbing about, dodging his key as he tried to slot it in. He swore under his breath.
From behind him, Owen said, “You could do some pot down here.”
“What?” Mason glanced over his shoulder, surprised. “Uh, no thanks, I don’t really do pot or—”
Owen looked confused and then laughed, a broad and friendly sound. “No, I said you could do with some pots down here.” He gestured around the barren space. “It’s shady, but you could have some nice ferns, lily of the valley, even cyclamen. Brighten the place right up.”
“Oh.” Feeling like an idiot, Mason gave an embarrassed laugh. “Like I said, gardening’s really not my thing.”
Owen chuckled again but didn’t say any more, and Mason turned back to the door, trying to get his key into the shifting lock. “Shit, this fucking thing keeps moving.”
“Let me see,” Owen said, and Mason felt a sudden warmth against his back as Owen reached around him to take the key and easily slid it into the lock. “There you go.”
Slightly breathless, Mason turned the key and opened the door, feeling for the light switch as he led Owen down the short hallway, past his bedroom and into the kitchen with its warm wooden floors and gleaming stone surfaces. Wobbling a little, he balanced himself with one hand on the wall as he walked.
“Come on,” Owen said when they reached the kitchen, taking Mason gently by the elbow and guiding him to sit at the small table. “You should eat something.”
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Still queasy?” Owen said, crouching down next to the chair to study him. “You’re very pale.”
“No, I’m just...” Again, his eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly, embarrassed, then dropped his head into his hands. “Shit, I’m sorry. I never do this.”
Jesus, what was wrong with him? A guy showed him a little kindness and, what, he was ready to bawl?
Owen touched his shoulder gently as he stood. “I’ll get you some water.”
Mason listened to him opening a couple of cupboards, running the tap and filling a glass. Listened to Owen’s footsteps as he drew closer again and to the gentle thud of a glass on the table. “Start sipping that,” Owen said, “and I’ll make you some toast. Where’s the bread?”
Mason looked up, squinting in the bright kitchen light. Owen was standing next to his chair, a frown creasing his brow as he gazed down at Mason.
“I try not to eat bread.”
Owen looked as incredulous as if Mason had just announced, ‘I try not to breathe air’. Then his expression cleared. “Oh, are you allergic?”