Page 23 of Home Grown Talent
Mason laughed grimly. “Only to the carbs. Honestly, I fucking love bread, but I have to be strict when I’ve got a shoot coming up.”
A lot of guys Mason had gone out with would have said something sarcastic or judgmental about that, but Owen just looked thoughtful, then said, “Have you got something else that might soak up the booze? I guarantee you’ll feel better tomorrow if you eat something.” He glanced around the kitchen, as if for inspiration. The surfaces were all spotless, everything in its place, and barren of food. That had less to do with Mason’s tidiness and more to do with the fact that he didn’t have much reason to cook very often.
After a pause, he admitted, “There’s a loaf in the freezer. I keep it for emergencies.”
“I think this counts as an emergency,” Owen said, heading to the freezer and pulling out Mason’s guilty pleasure: a loaf of cheap, white, plasticky bread. He pried free a couple of slices, then stood in the kitchen, looking around.
“Don’t you have a toaster?”
“It’s too much temptation,” Mason admitted. Truth was, he dearly loved a cup of tea and a slice of toast. It reminded him of coming home from school, him and Frieda sitting down at the galley table, eating hot buttered white toast and drinking tea together while he told her about his day. That had been before the twins came along, of course. And before Kurt left.
Owen said, “You must have a grill?” He sounded somewhere between bemused and indulgent.
“Yeah,” Mason admitted. “It’s above the main oven.” He pointed out the controls, then watched as Owen got the grill going and began toasting the bread.
“Butter?” Owen asked.
“In the fridge.” Mason closed his eyes and let his head sink back into his hands. He reckoned he was still pretty drunk because this weirdly domestic scene with a not-quite-stranger was churning up all sorts of unwanted, inappropriate emotions.
Shit, he was never drinking again.
“Here you go,” Owen said a little later, his voice, and the delicious aroma of buttered toast, reaching Mason at the same time. He looked up to find Owen sitting opposite him at the table, a plate of toast and two mugs of tea between them.
“Go on,” Owen said, nudging the plate towards him. “You’ll feel better.”
And fuck it, why not? Reaching out, Mason picked up a piece of toast and took a massive bite, almost groaning at the sweetish flavour of the toasted bread and the salty, melted butter.
Across the table, Owen smiled. “Good?”
“So good.” Mason pushed the plate back towards Owen. “Have some.”
Owen grinned and grabbed a slice while Mason took another big bite of his own toast. Already, he was feeling better, his body eagerly responding to the gloriously unhealthy fix of refined carbs, fat, and salt.
They ate in silence for a while, quickly munching through the whole plate. It was surprisingly comfortable, and Mason felt the distress of the evening begin to ease as his stomach settled. When the toast was gone, he reached for his tea. It had milk in. He usually made himself drink it black, but he preferred it with milk, and when he took his first sip, he sighed in pure unadulterated contentment. God, there really was nothing more comforting than a cuppa, made just the way you liked it.
Maybe that was why he found the courage to ask, “So do you think you’ll do the Weekend Wellness thing?”
Owen glanced at him. “I don’t know… TV isn’t something I’ve ever thought about doing, and I’ve got a couple of really busy months coming up.” He tipped his head, looking Mason in the eye and frowned. “But you could still do it, right? They’d easily find another gardener. Someone way better than me, I’m sure. I’d be useless on telly.”
Mason tried not to let his disappointment show. “Honestly, I think Misty only suggested it because of you. So if you’re not up for it…” He trailed off meaningfully.
But Owen didn’t take the bait. “Because of me?” he said, frowning. “I doubt that.”
Mason stared at Owen, wondering how to respond. Part of him—a big part—wanted to work on Owen, use everything he had to persuade him to do the show. But another part of him was fiercely rejecting that idea, and he honestly wasn’t sure why.
“Misty thought we had…” He paused. “Look, it doesn’t matter. She’ll probably move onto something new tomorrow anyway. That’s how this industry works.” He was going to stop there; he really was. But somehow he found himself adding, “You have to seize your chance in the moment, before it slips away.”
Owen’s frown deepened. “So you’d be missing out on that chance if I said no?”
Mason stared at him, unsure what to say. He suspected that if he agreed with that assessment, Owen would do it, even if he didn’t want to. It was a heady realisation, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
“I don’t want to fuck things up for you,” Owen added quietly, earnestly.
For a split second, Mason hesitated. He just had to say the word, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he gave a shrug and said lightly, “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
Owen said nothing, but his gaze stayed on Mason, warm and heavy.
Mason looked away, swallowed the last mouthful of his tea.