Page 26 of Home Grown Talent

“Yes, it’s Simon Carter.” They were standing very close now, Mason’s body humming in anticipation. It wasn’t just the booze, either; he could feel a warm rush of desire in his blood, making his heart bound and his fingers tingle. Reaching up, he stroked Owen’s jaw, enjoying the soft scratch of stubble beneath his fingertips. Not quite a beard, but sensual to touch.

Owen froze, his bright gaze lifting to Mason’s eyes. Mason smiled encouragingly. Owen was about his height, but a lot broader, giving Mason a delicious sensation of being engulfed. Leaning in, he let his lips part, wetting them with the tip of his tongue.

Owen visibly swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Smiling, Mason allowed gravity to draw him in, to pull him into Owen’s orbit, so close his lips brushed Owen’s mouth and—

A firm, gentle hand on his chest stopped him, eased him back. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Owen sounded regretful.

Mason froze. “Why not?” Then he drew back, offended. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“It’s not that I don’t—”

“I said forget it!” Mason turned away, face burning in humiliation. No one ever turned him down for a fuck. The fact that it was Saint bloody Owen, sounding gruff and pitying… Christ, it was unbearable. “Fuck, I’m still half-pissed,” he said. “I should just sleep.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Owen said gravely. Then, “Take a couple of pills first, yeah? And try to drink all that water.”

Mason, whose throat had closed in a suffocating knot of mortification and frustration, could only nod. Fuck, of course Owen wouldn’t want him. What had he been thinking? Owen had never thought Mason was good enough for Lewis, so why would he want him for himself? Especially now, after he’d just watched Mason puking on a toilet floor and been forced to leave his brother’s awards dinner to pour Mason into a cab. Jesus. Mason hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet.

Worse than all that, though, he’d probably just killed off any chemistry between them. And with that went Misty’s interest in the whole gardening slot.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

And still Owen was being obnoxiously patient and gentle because that was the sort of Mr. Bloody Perfect he was. The sort of man who’d want nothing to do with a self-promoting piece of arm candy like Mason Nash.

“Are you going to be okay?” Owen said. He sounded closer, as if he’d taken another step into the bedroom.

Mason just nodded.

“Okay, well…” Owen cleared his throat, shuffled his feet. “I’ll just turn out the lights in the kitchen and head home. You get into bed and sleep it off. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Another nod, and then he managed a scratchy, “Yeah, thanks. Thanks for…” His voice gave out, and he couldn’t finish the sentence, screwing his eyes shut against another swell of regret.

Why had he done it? Why?

“Any time,” Owen said, then gave an awkward laugh. It was the first time all evening he’d sounded less than genuine. “Not that I think you should make a habit of this.”

“I won’t. I don’t,” Mason assured him, arms wrapped around himself now in a desperate attempt to hold together what was left of his dignity until Owen had left.

Perhaps sensing that, Owen said, “Right, well, goodnight then.”

With that, his footsteps disappeared down the hallway. Mason heard the kitchen lights switch off, then the hall light as Owen walked back past his bedroom to the front door. Finally, he heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Through his window, Mason watched Owen trot up the steps back to pavement level. He paused at the top for a long, long moment before eventually shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and walking quickly away.

That, Mason guessed, was probably that. Tomorrow, a text would arrive from Owen saying he’d given it some thought and he couldn’t do the show after all. Too much on. Too busy.

And Mason had no one to blame but himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Owen

The morning after the awards dinner, Owen woke at six, hard as a rock, with the image of Mason, standing in his bedroom, vivid in his mind. Mason’s eyes gleaming with seductive promise, his open shirt revealing the pale, beautiful architecture of his body. The delicate wings of his collarbones, the lean musculature of his chest, his taut, flat belly and sharp hipbones.

Posed like a cover model, all artful allure.

For a moment, Owen thought it was the lingering ghost of a dream. Then he remembered—it had really happened. Mason had lured Owen into his bedroom. Mason had tried to kiss him.