Page 90 of Home Grown Talent
“Might even be better?” Owen finished for him, half offended and half amused.
“No. I mean, yes, but better for you. We could—that is, should we speak to Adam about it? Maybe he can…” He trailed off, then blurted, “I really think you should just let me do it, you know? I think that would be best.”
Owen shook his head. “It’ll be okay, just… maybe… can you jump in and rescue me if I freeze or fuck up?”
“Of course,” Mason said, offering another nervy smile. “Whatever happens, I won’t let you crash and burn.”
Owen felt a slight easing of the tension in his stomach at that assurance. “Thanks,” he said, and he really meant it. “That… actually helps.”
Mason’s smile faded, and he pulled out his phone, starting to scroll restlessly. Clearly, Mason was more nervous than he wanted to admit, and somehow that helped too. If Mason needed Owen to do this with him, Owen would be there. No question.
He glanced at the clock. Adam was coming to get them in a few minutes’ time; then they’d wait on-set for their spot to start. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another, then another. It helped a bit, but the jittery, nervy feeling wasn’t going anywhere. He could only hope that it would ease up once they were actually doing the slot and talking to the presenters.
“Thank God they sent us the questions,” he said. “I mean, right now I’m struggling to remember the answers I prepared, but at least I have an idea of what they’re going to say. If I didn’t know, this would be so much worse. Fuck, I don’t think I could have done it. I think I might actually have chickened out.”
Mason looked up sharply from his phone, his expression arrested. “What?”
“The questions,” Owen repeated. “I was just saying that if I didn’t know what was coming, I don’t think I could have gone on.”
Mason looked stricken. “You know it’s just a rough list, right?” he said. His gaze slid away as he added, “The presenters might not ask all those questions. Or they might…take things in a completely different direction — they’re supposed to make it seem spontaneous. It’s live TV. Anything could happen.”
“I know,” Owen said. “It’s not like I’ve rehearsed it word for word or anything. It’s just—well, knowing most of what they’re going to ask helps, you know?”
Mason rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck, and Owen suddenly felt bad. It wasn’t fair to lay all this on Mason. Owen wasn’t the only one doing this today. Mason might have done live TV before, but only once or twice. He was clearly feeling anxious too.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be—”
Mason looked up, and this time his gaze was anguished. “No, don’t,” he interrupted. “Please don’t apologise, Owen. Listen, whatever happens, just follow my lead, okay?”
The door to the green room opened then. It was Adam, clipboard in hand, earpiece on.
“Time to go to the set, gents,” he said. “Follow me.”
“Can we just have one minute?” Mason broke in anxiously. “I just want to—”
“Sorry, no can do,” Adam said briskly. “We need you on set and ready to go.” He held the door open, gesturing brusquely at them. “Come on.”
Owen got to his feet. “It’s okay, Mason,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
Mason looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end, he got up too, and they both followed Adam out into the corridor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mason
Mason’s stomach pinched as Adam led them to the main part of the set where the guest interviews took place. It wasn’t the fact that this was going out live that bothered him, although his body was alive with the familiar rush of adrenaline that accompanied every catwalk show. No, his churning anxiety was all about the extra pineapple footage that hung over him like the sword of Damocles.
On set, there were two sofas set up in an “L” shape, one for the presenters and one for the guests. Marc and Leah were already in place, both of them looking polished and wholesome as they perused their notes. As Mason and Owen got closer, Adam explained in an undertone that their latest gardening slot was currently on air, pausing to point out the screen hanging beneath the autocue, which showed what was being broadcast right now. On the screen, Owen and Mason were crouching beside one of the raised beds, Owen pointing to different parts of a plant as he talked. Mason was nodding, his gaze flicking between the plant and Owen. Mason’s stomach twisted to see the expression on his own face each time his eyes returned to Owen. The softness there. The painfully obvious admiration.
“When the slot finishes, we’ll come back to the studio,” Adam added quietly, drawing Mason’s attention to the here and now. “At that point, we’ll go straight into your interview.”
Mason nodded, then cast his gaze around. “Where’s Misty?” he whispered when he could see no sign of her.
“Production control room,” Adam said, pointing to a door behind the cameras
Well, that was something at least. Mason was glad he wouldn’t be able to see her while they were on air.
When they reached the sofas, Marc and Leah stood up to greet them. Mason watched Leah do a double-take when she caught sight of Owen, and no wonder—gone was Owen’s touchable mop of nut-brown hair, in its place that buzz cut that made him look oddly exposed. Vulnerable, even. Especially here, so out of his element.