Page 32 of Home Grown Talent

“Did you know her name is short for Mistletoe?”

“What?” Mason laughed.

Owen grinned back. “Lewis told me. Apparently, she was a Christmas baby.”

“Oh my God, that’s hilarious, but what’s it got to do with being a freeloader?”

“Mistletoe’s a parasitic plant,” Owen explained. “It gets all its food and water from its host.”

Mason snorted. “Is it enormously impressed with itself, too?”

“Now that I don’t know,” Owen said, chuckling—Mason could be surprisingly wry. “But it is poisonous, so watch out….”

For a few moments they were both silent. Then Mason said, “Despite all that, I had a lot of fun today. Did you?”

Owen glanced over, catching Mason’s eyes for a moment. “I did, actually. I was quite nervous at first—”

“I could tell, but you were great. Really natural.”

“Yeah? You were amazing. Feeding me all those lines. You made it so easy.”

Mason’s cheeks flushed. “I think this’ll be good,” he said as Owen pulled up on a double yellow line outside the station. “It’ll be great. I’m going to start posting about it.” Someone hooted, and Mason quickly undid his seatbelt. “Once the contracts are signed, is it okay if I put something on Insta? A pic of us from today?”

“Uh, yeah, okay. Of course.”

“Not too self-promoting for you?” Mason said, raising one brow, lips ticking up in a cheeky smile.

“No,” Owen said, smiling back. “I think I can live with that.”

“Great,” Mason said, opening the van door and climbing out. At the last minute he turned back, sticking his head inside the van. “You should follow me on Insta. I’m @masonisamodel. We should get a little banter going. For publicity, you know? Misty will love it.”

“All right,” Owen said, smiling too. “I will.” God only knew when he was last on Instagram. It had been so long that he’d have to ask Naaz to show him how to log on.

“Great. And thanks for the lift.” He closed the door and strode off.

Despite the irritable hoots of cars trying to get around him, Owen didn’t move, watching until Mason had crossed in front of the van and headed into the station, naturally graceful, long legs striding out and blonde hair gleaming in the golden evening light.

“Jesus Christ, Hunter,” he said to himself as he pulled out into traffic, giving a wave of apology to the grumpy cab driver glaring at him. “Stop fucking staring at the guy.”

He was smiling as he said it, though. He was smiling all the way home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mason

The Sunday after the screen test, Mason was slumped down in a seat at the back of the carriage on a train from Clapham Junction. The spring sunshine streamed harsh and bright through the window, which was good because it meant Mason could keep his sunglasses on without looking like a wanker.

Not that Mason got recognised constantly, but it did happen, and always at the worst time.

This was a worst time.

Visiting his mum always put him in a mood, one that wouldn’t lift until he was on the train heading back to London and his own life. Not that he didn’t love his mum. He did. Of course he did, but sometimes—okay, often—she felt like an enormous weight sitting on his shoulders.

What would I do without you? she’d say when he sorted out another problem for her. My beautiful boy.

You’d be fine without me. That was what he wanted to say. You’re a grown woman.

But he didn’t say it because saying it would have been impossible. Even hinting at it would have strayed too close to the things they didn’t talk about.