Page 80 of Home Grown Talent
“Okay,” Owen said immediately.
Mason peeked up through his lashes, saw the rueful tilt of Owen’s lips, and felt his own anger and frustration start to melt away. A gap had opened between them, though, a chasm that Mason didn’t know how—or whether—to cross.
Owen, however, didn’t seem to share his uncertainty. He simply opened his arms and took another step closer, “Come here, angel,” he said, and it was exactly that easy. Helplessly, Mason walked into his arms and let them close around him.
“I’m sorry,” Owen murmured, nuzzling into his hair. “I don’t want to argue with you. I just—”
“I don’t either,” Mason said quickly, squeezing him tight. “Let’s just forget it.”
Owen’s sigh was almost silent, no more than a rise and fall of his chest. Mason felt it, but didn’t comment. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore, so instead, he said, “I was going to make dessert if you fancy it…?”
“Dessert?” Owen pulled back, eyebrows twitching in a comic display of interest.
“Moelleux au Chocolat.” He smiled at Owen’s blank expression. “It’s a kind of gooey chocolate pudding, with a raspberry coulis. And ice cream. Won’t take long to make.”
Owen smiled back, a hint of relief in his eyes. “That sounds amazing.”
“Okay then,” Mason said, brisk now. “You put some music on. I’ll be through in fifteen minutes. We can have dessert on the sofa.”
Owen released him. “Fifteen minutes? To make a real French dessert?”
Mason chuckled as he headed for the kitchen. “Yup. It’s super easy.” He made a shooing motion at Owen. “Go on, music.”
Once back in the kitchen, though, Mason stood for a moment with his hands braced on the counter and his head down, trying to centre himself. What the fuck was he doing? Was he actually getting involved in a relationship with Owen? Was that what this was?
He’d never wanted that, never wanted to hold the kind of power over anyone that Kurt had held—still held—over Frieda. And yet here he was, allowing Owen to comfort and forgive him, even though, five minutes earlier, Mason had been hurling angry, hurtful words at him.
Christ, he’d always run a mile from emotional crap like this. So why the hell wasn’t he running now?
His heart whispered the answer, but Mason dared not listen.
Pushing himself away from the counter, he distracted himself from his churning thoughts by gathering up the ingredients he needed and setting them out ready to use. He knew the basic proportions, but decided to do a quick recipe check on his phone for the exact measurements. His hand went automatically to his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. It must still be in the bedroom, he thought, from when he’d got undressed earlier. He smiled to himself as he headed for the bedroom, both at the memory of how Owen had fucked him and at the surprising realisation that he’d gone so long without even thinking to check his phone.
He found it face down on the bedroom floor. It must have spilled out of the pocket of his jeans in his haste to strip. Picking it up, he idly thumbed it open, stilling when he saw the latest notification. A message from Misty. It was the last in a series of messages, and he quickly navigated to the full thread.
Great socials this week—loved the pineapple thing! Pineapple emoji.
Actually, let’s pick that up Weds. We can do something with it. Thumbs up emoji.
Can’t wait for you to see the plot, btw—you and O won’t recognise it from last time!
Also, journalist friend of mine keen to do a piece on you two—will intro. Smiley emoji.
One little ask—can O do a bit more online? Works better if you’re both engaging.
Smiley emoji.
Grimly, Mason closed his phone and shoved it in his pocket.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Owen
By the time the next day of filming rolled around, Owen was knackered. He’d worked the whole weekend, then late on Monday and Tuesday so he could take the day off, and now his body ached from the hard labour and long hours of the last few days.
He was a natural early riser, but even so, when his alarm went off at five that morning, he groaned, pulling a pillow over his face. Christ, he could use another hour or two in bed. But he forced himself up and into the shower, turning it cold for the last two minutes to really wake himself up.
Chugging down a strong coffee, he drove out to the RPP studio on autopilot, parked and headed round to the garden plot at the back. There were a few people milling about already—Lucy, the director, a sound guy he hadn’t seen before, and a make-up woman, rifling through her kit. He almost groaned aloud when he saw Misty Watson-King. She was wearing a pair of distressed denim dungarees over a red vest top, clumpy red gardening clogs and a red-and-white bandana tied in a jaunty knot. Her outfit was probably designed to look relaxed and casual, but she looked anything but as she barked instructions at a harassed-looking Naomi, who was trying to take notes on an iPad. Hopefully, Misty wouldn’t be there all day. Owen wasn’t sure he could take eight or nine hours of her without exploding.