Page 37 of Home Grown Talent

Mason shrugged carelessly, but Owen had seen the quick, shy smile he’d hidden. “I used to cook a lot. I don’t get much chance to do it these days.”

“Yeah? You cook?”

Mason laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. My skills aren’t limited to pouting and wearing clothes, you know. I’ll even prove it, if you like.”

“Prove it?”

“Yeah. I’ll cook for you.” He smiled a smile Owen wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. “Why don’t you come to mine tomorrow evening? We’ll get these notes finished and sent off to Misty, and I’ll make us some supper.”

Which was how Owen found himself standing in his bedroom on Thursday evening after getting home from work, wondering what the hell to wear.

This is not a date, he reminded himself for the hundredth time as he towelled his hair dry and examined the contents of his wardrobe. He’s just cooking supper. We’re having supper as friends.

Over the next half hour, Owen tried on a bunch of different shirts and trousers, but everything he put on made him look like he was going on a date. Or at least like he thought he was going on a date. Which he definitely wasn’t.

In the end, hot and flustered from all the pulling on and off of different outfits, he settled for some nice but very old jeans and a navy-and-green checked shirt in soft, brushed flannel with a plain, white t-shirt underneath.

Casual, he thought. Relaxed and casual.

He spent a few minutes trying to calm his messy hair, cursing himself for still not having gone to the barber's again this week and resolving to definitely go this weekend. Having tamed his mop into submission with hair product, he impulsively reached for the Tom Ford aftershave Mason had commented on before. He liberally sprayed himself, only to breathe in and realise just how much he’d used. Hell. Now he reeked of Oud Wood—and when he looked in the mirror, he groaned at the sight of his weirdly, uncharacteristically neat hair.

“Shit.”

Running his hands through his hair, he messed it back up, then scrubbed himself with a damp washcloth to get rid of the aftershave scent as best he could.

“Calm the fuck down,” he scolded his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “This is not a date.”

And if he didn’t get a shift on, he was going to be late.

He was locking his front door when one of his neighbours, Susie, walked past on her way home from work.

“Hey, Owen,” she said cheerily, slowing her pace. “You look nice. Hot date tonight?”

“What, me?” he said, giving a strained laugh. “No. No date tonight.”

She looked puzzled by his vehemence but said lightly, “Okay. Well, have a good night, whatever you get up to.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said. “You too.”

Damn. He should probably change, but he really didn’t have time now. Instead, he jumped in the van and spent the drive over to Mason’s place worrying that, despite his determined attempts to appear casual, he still looked like he thought he was on a date. After all, why had Susie jumped to that conclusion? Was he usually so dressed down that just putting on a clean shirt looked like a major effort on his part?

“This is not a date,” he muttered as he pulled the van into a parking spot round the corner from Mason’s flat. “It is absolutely not a date.”

He grabbed the bottle of wine he’d bought to take over—was that another mistake?—and forced himself to get out.

He paused when he reached Mason’s front door, but before he could even press the bell, it opened… and there was Mason in a pair of loose, tatty, grey shorts and a tight navy t-shirt with a floury handprint on it. His narrow feet were bare, and his lean, lightly tanned legs were smooth and hairless.

Owen realised he was staring at Mason’s legs and dragged his gaze back up.

“Hey,” Mason said, his smile warm. “I saw you coming down the steps.”

“Hi,” Owen replied. His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. “Um, I brought some wine.”

Mason reached out to take the offered bottle, and Owen stared at the twisted leather bracelet on his wrist, the dark brown leather contrasting with his pale gold skin.

“Thanks. Oooh, a Riesling, that’s perfect. Come on in.” Turning around, Mason headed back into the flat, and Owen followed, closing the door behind him.

“Wow, it smells amazing in here,” he said, sniffing appreciatively as he entered the kitchen.