Page 38 of Home Grown Talent

Mason grinned at him. “Grab a seat. I’ll open this.”

He picked up a corkscrew and efficiently uncorked the wine. There were glasses on the table already.

“Um, I drove over actually,” Owen said. “I probably shouldn’t drink.”

“Your choice, but you could have one glass,” Mason replied. “I can make you some coffee to have with pudding to sober you up after.”

“You made pudding?” Owen said, surprised.

“Of course! I invited you over to show off my skills, didn’t I?”

“What are we having?”

“Halibut with beurre blanc and sauté potatoes followed by tarte au citron.”

Owen’s eyes widened. “That sounds… wow. I was kind of expecting some pasta or something. Maybe some garlic bread if I was lucky. In that case, okay, I’ll have some wine. Seems a shame not to.”

Mason grinned and poured the Riesling.

“I better get the halibut started,” he said. “Everything else is pretty much ready to go.”

“Do you need me to do anything?” Owen said, half-rising from his chair. Mason set a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down.

“All you need to do is sit there and look pretty,” he said, chuckling.

Owen’s face flooded with sudden heat. “Um, that’s really more your thing, isn’t it? Maybe we should swap places.”

Mason’s full lips quirked up in an amused smile. “Unless you can make a beurre blanc, tonight it’s your thing, big boy.”

Big boy?

Owen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but as he watched Mason cook—slicing butter into a cast-iron pan, setting the fish inside, seasoning and basting and turning it—his awkwardness began to melt away. Mason’s movements were practised and assured, his confidence evident. After a few minutes, he took the pan off the burner and slid the whole thing into the oven. An orgasmically good garlicky scent escaped when he opened the oven door, and Owen’s stomach grumbled loudly.

“Hungry?” Mason said, his green eyes dancing with mischief.

Owen’s breath caught. Mason’s face was pink from the heat of the hob, his hair was flopping messily over his forehead, and he looked… happy.

It was a good look on him.

“Yeah,” Owen said, after a pause. “Starving actually.”

Mason winked. “Just the beurre blanc to go.” He lit one of the burners under another pan that was already sitting on the hob and headed off to the fridge. By the time he returned, with a bowl full of cubes of butter, the pan was giving off an aromatic winey fragrance.

“That’s a hell of a lot of butter,” Owen said.

Mason smiled. “Well, it is a butter sauce. Don’t worry. You’ll like it.” He tossed a handful of butter cubes into the pan and began whisking.

“I’m sure I will,” Owen said, practically drooling. “I love butter. You’ll have to stop me eating it. I’ll be licking my plate.”

Mason’s smile widened, pleased with that response. “Lick away,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at Owen. “You work hard, and you cycle tons—you can afford to splurge on a few calories.”

“So can you,” Owen pointed out.

Mason gave a strangely charming half-grin. “I sort of can actually, for once. I don’t have another shoot for ten days. I’ll be doing double workouts till then, though.” He took a glug of wine, tossing another handful of butter cubes into the pan, his whisk moving constantly.

For a few minutes, Owen just watched him contentedly, sipping his wine. “You really look like you know what you’re doing,” he said after a while.

Mason shrugged. “Well, I did used to be a chef.”