Page 87 of Home Grown Talent

You deserve to choose the life you live.

Easy to say, but in the real world, what choices did he have? Christ, if Misty told Owen that Mason had ‘fucked him for ratings’… Mason’s stomach twisted at the thought. It wasn’t true, not really—but it was close enough to the truth to ruin everything. Mason felt sure, with cold certainty, that Owen would never understand—or forgive—Mason if he suspected that was the reason Mason had slept with him.

Then there was the fact that Austin fucking Coburn was interested in interviewing him—Austin Coburn who had a big splashy column in a fancy Sunday broadsheet and who appeared on TV panel shows. It was a massive opportunity. Frankie would wet himself if he knew, and Mason would be a fool to turn it down.

But still he felt queasy. He gave it one more try.

“I think Owen just wants to be upfront about—”

“Oh my God, nobody cares!” Misty cried, throwing up her hands. “It’s a pineapple, for God’s sake. Are you really going to throw everything away over a fucking pineapple?”

And yeah, that was the question. Mason understood Owen’s point, but Owen was coming at this from a very narrow perspective, and did it really matter if they fudged the growing time for a pineapple? It was just fluff, just filler. And if Mason presented it, it wouldn’t even reflect on Owen. Not really.

Misty had her hands on her hips, studying him. The morning breeze caught her long swath of blonde hair, and in the cool light, he could see a narrow line of grey roots along the centre of her parting.

“Well?” she said impatiently. “What’s it to be, Mason? Are you on board or not?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Owen

Owen didn’t see Mason in the week following the second filming session. Work was insanely busy, and Mason’s diary was crammed too—away for a few days at a catalogue shoot, then out with his family for his mum’s birthday on the Thursday he got back. Then, on Friday, he was due to catch up with Tag for drinks. He offered to rearrange, insisting Tag wouldn’t mind, but Owen was so knackered by then, he decided to take the opportunity for an early night, especially given they had to be at the RPP studio for seven the next morning for their live studio appearance.

“You go out and have a good time with Tag,” he told Mason. He was leaning against the fence of the garden he’d been working in, watching Naaz and Kyle tidy up their gear. His shoulders ached from lugging heavy bags of sharp sand, topsoil, and compost all day, but the late afternoon sun was mellow, and he was smiling as he spoke, imagining Mason lounging on his sofa in his favourite tatty shorts and nothing else.

“Are you sure?” Mason said uncertainly. “I’ve really missed you this week.”

“Yeah?” A bolt of pleasure zinged through Owen at that confession. “I’ve missed you too. But we’ll be done by lunchtime tomorrow, and then I’ve got the rest of the weekend off.”

“No overtime this weekend?” Mason said, sounding suddenly brighter.

Owen grinned. “Nope.” Encouraged, he took a breath and added, “I was thinking, if the weather holds up, we could maybe go to the seaside. What do you think? Maybe book a night somewhere nice?”

A considering pause came down the line, and for a heart-stopping moment, Owen was afraid he’d pushed things too far with that suggestion. But then, with a rueful sigh, Mason said, “I’d actually love that.” He sounded happy, and Owen could just imagine how he’d look in that moment, his smile soft, green eyes dreamy. “Can we get an ice cream at the beach?”

“Yeah. We’ll get ninety-nines with Mr. Whippy ice cream,” Owen promised. “Double-size ones.”

“With two Flakes and strawberry sauce,” Mason added, with a soft laugh.

“Strawberry sauce!” Owen teased. “Sacrilege!”

Mason laughed too, then added softly, “Can’t wait to see you.”

“Same,” Owen murmured. Distantly, he was aware he was smiling like a complete loon, but he didn’t care. The words I love you tingled on the tip of his tongue, but no, he wasn’t going to say them now. It was still so early, and he didn’t want to scare Mason off. Besides, you didn’t say stuff like that for the first time on the phone. So all he said was. “See you tomorrow, angel.”

“Yeah,” Mason breathed, and then he paused, and it felt like he might say more, but in the end, he only murmured, “See you,” and hung up.

Owen stared at his phone, still smiling, after the call ended. Then, realising he probably looked like a right nob, he shoved it in his pocket and went to help Naaz and Kyle put the gear back in the van.

When Owen’s alarm went off the next morning, he woke feeling well-rested. He’d been sorely tempted to call Mason the night before, to see if there was any chance of him coming over after his drinks with Tag, but now he was glad he’d resisted temptation. He felt refreshed and could look forward to a whole weekend of just him and Mason—well, after he’d faced the horrors of the TV cameras anyway.

That thought had his stomach knotting up with stress, and he scrubbed his hands over his face. Funny how easy it had been to agree to today’s appearance when it had been weeks and weeks away. Now that it was here, today, it felt like an insane decision. Being filmed was bad enough when you knew someone was going to edit the footage to try to make you look semi-coherent. Today was completely different. Today, he was going to have to sit under hot lights, being questioned by those toothy, overly cheerful presenters. Live on air.

Groaning, he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

At least he’d managed to get to the barber's, although now that he was facing his stark reflection in the bathroom mirror, he wondered whether he’d gone too short. Fed up with his mop, he’d asked the barber to take off more than usual, and the guy had really gone for it. Owen felt almost naked as he turned his head, checking out the result. Well, it was done now, and at least he wouldn’t look scruffy on TV.

Picking up his razor, he carefully shaved all the scruff off his face, thinking about the ordeal to come. As the minutes ticked by, the vague nervy jitter in his stomach that had begun when he first woke up gradually grew into something that felt more like a writhing pit of snakes. By the time he was showered and dressed, he was feeling genuinely nauseous, unable even to stomach the thought of breakfast. Somehow, he managed to force down half of a mug of camomile tea—which did nothing to calm him down—before he finally headed out to the van.