Page 71 of Home Grown Talent
What would have happened if Mason had walked away that day Frankie stopped him in the street and handed Mason his card? What if he’d tossed it? What if he’d stayed at the restaurant, working his arse off for a pittance? His parents would have had to manage.
That thought made him feel weird. Almost dizzy, as he imagined a different life, one where he wasn’t on TV, where he was pretty much broke but doing work he was passionate about.
What if.
He thought about it all the way home.
What if.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Owen
Something prickled between Owen’s shoulder blades.
Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with the rambling rose he was training along the trellis he and Mac had just fixed to the garden wall of the pretty Victorian terraced house they were working at.
“I reckon you’ve pulled,” Mac said under her breath as she started shovelling wood chip mulch around the newly-planted rose.
Owen flushed, which was ridiculous, but it was just so…odd. “She’s really not my type.”
His type, apparently, being gorgeous twenty-something male models with pouty lips, grass-green eyes, and a penchant for being taken care of, which somehow managed to soften Owen’s heart and harden his cock all at the same time.
Mason had him dizzy, that was for sure. Even now he smiled at the memory of waking up on Thursday morning with Mason snuggled up next to him after they’d shagged each other senseless the night before.
Mason had come over unexpectedly, all riled up about his parents and prickly as a hedgehog, hadn’t wanted to talk, hadn’t wanted to eat, had just prowled around Owen’s kitchen with a look of needy desperation in his eyes.
Owen had known exactly what he’d wanted. No, what he’d needed. Like any other rare and beautiful bloom, Mason needed specific care and attention. Luckily, Owen knew exactly how to give it to him.
And give it to him he had, right there against the kitchen wall with Mason’s legs wrapped around his waist, begging to come as Owen pounded into him. And then they’d gone for a second round in the bedroom.
Mason had been out like a light afterwards, falling asleep with his head against Owen’s shoulder, one arm draped over his waist, and Owen’s heart had swelled until it felt too big for his body. He’d kissed Mason’s hair, felt his eyes burn, and known with joyful dismay that he was falling helplessly in love.
That he’d already fallen.
“She’s not even pretending now,” Mac muttered. “She’s just fucking staring at you.”
“She” was their client’s next-door neighbour. Owen and Mac had been working this job for a day and a half—a full redesign of a small, city garden. Usually, it was one of Owen’s favourite types of job. Not big or ostentatious, but satisfying. The garden was west-facing, which was great for sun later in the day, with the challenge of some deep shade cast by the flats that had gone up one street over, and a nice square shape to elongate with the clever use of design. The client, Verity, was nice too. An easy-going single woman in her sixties, she had a clear idea of what she wanted from the space but was only too happy to leave the details of the design and planting choices to Owen.
So, yeah, he’d have been as happy as Larry if Verity’s much younger neighbour hadn’t spent the whole time watching him and Mac through her upstairs window as they worked.
A few minutes later, Mac said, “I’m going to get another bag of mulch from the van. Need anything else?”
“Nah, I’m going to put that forsythia in, then take a break.” By which he meant escape the neighbour’s weird attention and see if Mason had messaged him. Which he probably had, since he was wedded to his phone.
The garden was accessed by a back gate that led onto an alleyway that ran behind the terrace of houses, and Mac headed out that way to find the van. Parking was a nightmare, and even with the resident permit Verity had given them, they’d still had to park halfway down the road.
After Mac left, Owen tied up the last of the rose’s little branches. Standing back, he took a moment to admire how it looked against the wall and to imagine what it would be like in a couple of years, twining up the trellis.
Behind him, he heard the kitchen door open.
“Oh, it’s looking so lovely!” Verity said warmly.
Owen turned around. “Yeah,” he said, then froze when he saw that Verity was not alone. Another woman had followed her out into the garden—the neighbour who’d been watching them.
Forcing a smile, Owen told himself that she was just another potential client, but there was something avid in her expression that made him want to back up a step.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Verity said apologetically, gesturing towards the woman, who Owen could now see was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. “But apparently, Jen here saw you on television”—she gestured at the woman and cleared her throat awkwardly—“and, um, she asked to meet you.” Verity’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “She’s my neighbour.”