Page 39 of Home Grown Talent

Owen blinked. “Did you?”

Mason looked amused by his reaction. “Yup. I was working as a chef de partie in a Michelin two-starred restaurant when I got spotted by my agent. It actually took him a while to convince me to give modelling a go.” He opened the oven and extracted the halibut. “This needs to rest for a few minutes.”

“What made you agree in the end?” Owen asked, genuinely curious. Mason seemed so comfortable cooking. It was the most relaxed Owen had ever seen him.

Mason sighed. “Long story.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Owen said, sensing reluctance.

“It’s fine. But maybe once we’re sat down.” He added more butter to the sauce pan—by now the sauce contained an eye-watering amount—and kept whisking. “I’ll be ready to serve in five minutes. Could you get out some cutlery?” He gestured at a drawer to his left.

Owen rose and went to the drawer, plucking out knives and forks. Then he topped up Mason’s wine and put the bottle in the fridge.

When he turned back, Mason was plating the food with all the concentrated precision of a professional chef.

“Wow,” Owen said as Mason set the plates down on the table and they slid into their chairs. “This looks incredible.”

Mason’s smile was somehow shy and confident at the same time. “Try it,” he urged.

Owen did, forking up a piece of halibut, liberally coated in beurre blanc. Christ, it was good. Fishy and sweet and succulent and buttery. He tried the little cubes of potatoes next and groaned with pleasure. They were garlicky and crispy and melting inside. And the asparagus, drenched in beurre blanc. And the green beans, soft but still bright green and full of flavour.

“This is amazing,” he got out at last. “It’s so good.”

Mason pressed his lips together, but Owen saw the smile he tried to suppress, and it made his heart skip a beat. He reached for his wine and took a mouthful, and that was amazing too, fresh and fragrant, cutting through the richness of the buttery sauce.

All too soon, he had finished his plate. He stared down at the remains of the sauce pooled there, wondering if it would be crass to ask for a spoon. Mason seemed to understand his dilemma. He got up and came back with a few slices of rustic-looking bread on a plate.

“I’m afraid I didn’t make this myself,” he said. “It’s sourdough from a Swedish bakery near here. It’s really good, though.”

Owen took a slice—and then another—using the delicious bread to mop up every bit of the sauce.

Mason ate more slowly than Owen, only eating his final bite of fish at the same time that Owen popped the last scrap of buttery bread into his mouth. Mason left the remainder of his sauce on the plate, eschewing the bread altogether. He did eat everything else, though, with obvious relish, as well as polishing off two large glasses of wine.

When he was done, he leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh. “That was good.”

“It was,” Owen said, and he didn’t only mean the food. It had been good to watch Mason cook and eat with such obvious pleasure. Good to see him so relaxed and happy.

“I’ll sort out pudding in a minute,” Mason said.

“No hurry.” After a moment, Owen added, “You seem to really love cooking. And judging by your expression when you put that fish in your mouth, you really love food too.”

Mason laughed softly. “Yeah. I do. I wanted to be a chef from being really young.”

“So why did you give up the kitchen for the catwalk?”

Mason made a face. “It’s actually a pretty boring story.”

“Tell me anyway,” Owen urged.

Mason sighed and leaned back in his chair. After a few moments, he said, “Getting a position at a top-end restaurant isn’t easy. The pay is terrible for junior chefs, and the hours are really long, so getting a second job is impossible. And of course, living in London is ridiculously expensive.” He shrugged. “But I really wanted to do it. In fact, it was the only thing I had ever wanted to do, and I figured it would be okay, despite the challenges, because at least I could keep living at home, which cut down on my expenses.”

“Was it just you and your parents at home, or…?” Owen trailed off, inviting an answer.

“My mum and two sisters,” Mason confirmed. “My dad lives with his girlfriend.” He gave a crooked smile. “When I was a kid, before my dad left, my parents were kind of hippyish—we lived on a canal boat when I was little.” He smiled at the memory, his green gaze softening.

“A canal boat? That sounds like fun for a kid.”

“It was,” Mason said. “For a long time, it was just the three of us, and yeah, it was great. Frieda—that’s my mum—didn’t work, and she was tons of fun to be with back then. Kurt works for a charity.”