Page 93 of Home Grown Talent

A fucking pineapple.

“Mason sneaked in one of your amazing home-grown pineapples,” Marc said to Owen. He laughed. “If I’d known they were so easy to grow, I’d have tried it myself!”

Owen opened his mouth to respond, and Mason’s stomach dropped. Shit, was Owen going to call bullshit on the whole thing live on air?

Holding his breath, Mason fixed his expression into camera-ready blankness and waited for the other shoe to drop.

And waited.

And waited.

But Owen said… nothing. No denial, no confirmation. Nothing at all. Mason risked a worried sideways glance and found Owen staring at him, colour high in his cheeks. With his brutal haircut and closed expression, he was suddenly unrecognisable. Hard as stone. Like granite, and utterly unreachable.

Mason felt like he’d been struck. The world shifted around him, reality suddenly too bright, too sharp. Panic twisted in his belly, making him feel sick with guilt, and he had to work hard not to reach out to grab Owen’s hand. To reassure him. To apologise. To show him that—

Shit.

Mason’s throat tightened. With abrupt and shocking clarity, he realised that, as much as he didn’t want to lose the slot on Weekend Wellness, he was far, far more terrified of losing Owen. And suddenly, that seemed like a distinct possibility.

It felt like forever that they sat there, staring at each other, but it was probably only a second before Leah cut through the awkward silence. “Well, I’m definitely going to be trying to grow one of these at home, Marc, but once I’ve harvested my pineapple, what can I do with it? There’s only so many pineapple smoothies a girl can drink!”

“Funny you should ask…” Laughing his cheesy laugh, Marc rose and began walking away from the sofas towards the kitchen set a few feet away, still carrying the fruit. One of the cameras swept along its dolly track after him. “Because we have someone with us today who is going to show us some amazing—and surprising—things you can do with your home-grown pineapple.”

Mason blinked, struggling to grasp how quickly that had all played out. The interview was done. Already, the glaring studio lights were off them, and Leah was up and striding across the studio floor towards a middle-aged guy with an earpiece and a clipboard, leaving Mason and Owen stranded on the guest sofa.

Heart pounding, Mason said hoarsely, “Owen, I’m sorry, I—”, but before he could say more, Adam was there.

“Let’s get your mics off,” he said briskly.

Mason just kept staring at Owen, his stomach in knots. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it wasn’t the utter blankness he encountered when Owen looked his way. Owen’s blue eyes looked hollow, and for a long, horrible moment, he stared at Mason with that cold, empty gaze. As though they were strangers. Then, with a violent jerk, he yanked off his mic and stood up.

“Hey,” Adam said moving forward, “careful with that.”

Owen ignored him, tearing the mic free, pulling the battery pack off his belt, and throwing it all down on the table. Then he stalked away without another word.

“Owen, wait—” Mason called after him, embarrassed by how his voice broke.

For a moment, he just sat there, paralysed; then he pulled off his own mic and hurried after Owen, ignoring Adam’s demand for him to wait. Ignoring the frowning faces of the crew, he pushed past.

When Mason burst out of the set, Owen was already halfway down the windowless inner corridor, striding towards the exit.

“Owen!”

Shoulders hunching, Owen didn’t respond. Didn’t look back. Didn’t stop.

Mason sprinted after him, dodging around an alarmed-looking woman carrying a cardboard holder loaded with hot drinks. “Sorry,” he muttered, not stopping as he raced after Owen.

By then, Owen was in reception, slowing down as he approached the glass doors, and Mason finally caught him up.

“Fuck’s sake,” Mason said, breathless as he grabbed Owen’s arm. “Will you just wait?”

Angrily, Owen shook him off. His face was flushed, his eyes flinty. “Let go,” he growled, glancing past Mason.

Mason followed his gaze and saw the security bloke at the reception desk staring at them with interest. Lowering his voice, Mason said, “Look, I know you weren’t expecting that. Neither was I, but—”

“Give me a break,” Owen growled and pushed open the glass doors, walking out into the grey morning. He didn’t wait for Mason, just stalked across the car park towards his van.

Mason pushed through the doors after him. “Will you just listen for a sec?”