Page 12 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

Owen’s gaze sweeps over my body and snags on my boxers before he drags it back to my face again. He’s bright red, definitely blushing now. “They’re only marginally more revealing than the shorts you were wearing the other day.”

I laugh, and a grin splits Owen’s features wide. I haven’t got anything to counter with, so I force my disobedient face into neutral by sucking my teeth.

“Right, you go sling something over your legs and I’ll look after the children,” Owen says.

I find myself stepping out of his way and following him up the stairs.

He’s wearing jeans, darker than the ones he was wearing the other night but no less inviting, and an emerald-green knitted jersey.

A white collar pokes up from the neckline.

He looks . . . so fucking tactile. Soft.

My fingers want to reach out and stroke the fabric.

I clench them into tight fists to kill any temptation.

He has a piece of lint on his right shoulder.

I leave it there. We’re not in any kind of situation where I feel comfortable grooming him.

At the top of the stairs Owen turns left and disappears into the spare room, reminding me once again that until fairly recently this was his house, and no doubt Daisy’s too. No wonder she came back here with her friend. It was probably muscle memory.

I turn right into my room and tug on a pair of joggers, and if I just so happen to choose my thinnest, snuggest pair of joggers, well . . . who can blame me? Having Owen Bosley secretly eye fuck me has got to be up there on the list of things I low-key need to happen.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Daisy is sobbing in Owen’s arms when I walk into the spare bedroom. Her back is to me, her face buried in her father’s chest, and her shoulders are shaking. The other bed is still empty. “I forgot you don’t live here any more.”

“Poppet, it’s fine. I’m not annoyed, okay?

I just wish you’d’ve come to the pub instead of disturbing Mathias.

” He strokes her head in long, sweeping, shushing motions, and smiles softly at me over the top of her blonde hair.

“We’re gonna need to get you in my car. I’ll drive you to Mum’s and I’ll drive Lando home after that. ”

“He’ll barf in your car, though,” she says, pulling away enough to look at her father’s face.

“Probably,” Owen says. He grimaces. “Won’t be the first time, and pretty sure it’s not going to be the last either.”

“It’s fine,” I say, interrupting their moment. “The kids can stay here tonight. There’s no point in moving them.” Not in the state they’re currently in. I don’t need to be scrubbing regurgitated meat feast from the shiny new carpets that no doubt cost Owen an arm and a leg.

Owen looks at me, raises a brow. “You sure?” I hear the trepidation in his voice .

“If you’re worried about leaving Daisy in a house with me, we can always swap beds? For the night, I mean. You take mine and I’ll go across the road to your flat.”

“Oh . . .” Owen scratches his neck. “No, that’s okay.

I’ll crash on the sofa here if that’s good with you.

It’s just that . . . I haven’t changed my sheets in a while, and I don’t wanna put you through .

. .” His face flames red again, and I bat aside the notion that sleeping on Owen’s dirty sheets would be hot.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I argue. “You sleep in my bed. That way you can be right across the hall from Daisy and . . . Lando, is it?”

He nods. “Short for Orlando. I presume he’s coiled around the toilet like a baby koala around its mum?”

“Last time I checked.” I stifle a laugh. He’s obviously been here, done that, got the damn T-shirt. No doubt in this exact situation. “Is he okay there, or should we carry him into the bedroom?”

“Good point.” Owen thinks for a second. Actually tickles the beard on his chin and hmms while he does it. “In the cupboard under the stairs there’s a mop bucket. Can you bring that up? And then we’ll move him together.”

I do as Owen asks, and a few moments later I’m holding out a bucket like a child handing over contraband sweeties. Owen peels Daisy’s jacket off, and wordlessly she slides down the bed and under the covers.

“Good night, trouble,” he says, kissing her on the forehead and then hanging her jacket over the back of a chair. He motions his head to the doorway, to the bathroom beyond, and the inebriated youth beyond that.

“Lando,” Owen whispers, crouching next to the sleeping kid. “Come on, mate, let’s get you into bed.” It takes a further three “Landos!” and a couple of shakey-shakes before he rouses.

Lando groans. “Mr B?”

“Up you get, buddy. Let’s get you tucked in,” Owen coos, and his voice is so soft and gentle even I find it soothing. I’m violently reminded that he’s a father. Lando’s not his kid, but Owen has a paternal instinct honed from two decades of experience .

“I saw Mathias Jones.” Lando pushes away from the bowl. “I think. Might have been a dream. He’s so fucking hot.”

Owen clamps his mouth closed to stop his laughter. “Hold this.” He hands Lando the bucket.

“I don’t have any barf left in me,” he says, but accepts the bucket nonetheless. Clutches it to his chest like a lifebuoy.

“Can you stand up?” Owen asks.

“Duh.” Lando goes onto all fours and pushes to his feet, leaving the bucket on the floor.

“See? I’m so good at this. Practically win Olympic medals, soooo .

. .” But his eyes are closing, and his shoulders sag.

He takes a sideways step, and then another, and then he’s skipping along, tripping over his boots and into the side of the tub.

I catch him before he can fall into it—years of accumulated tackling instinct. He’s damp with sweat, even over the top of his T-shirt and shirt combo, and he stinks of vomit, booze, Tom Ford eau de parfum, and BO. I wrinkle my nose.

Owen collects the bucket from the ground as I hook my arm underneath the tacky teenager and guide him out of the bathroom towards the spare bedroom. And just like I’d assumed earlier, he’s a good two inches taller than me. What are they feeding teenagers these days?

Lando swings dilated pupils to me. “Am I dead? Am I in heaven? Damn, you’re hot. You’re not usually my type, but I’m not kicking you out of bed. What’s your name, and can I call you Daddy?” He doesn’t recognise me, despite mentioning me only moments ago.

“Hey, buddy,” Owen says from Lando’s other side. He’s barely containing his laughter. “You might want to not say whatever it is you’re about to say, or it’s gonna make tomorrow morning really awkward for you.”

Lando continues like Owen’s a bothersome fly. “Are we fucking? I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. Oh, except for pizza, but I think that’s all out of my system now anyway.”

“No, we’re not fucking. You’re going to go to sleep and try not to barf again. ”

I lower him onto the bed as Owen pulls back the duvet cover. He places it over him gently, fatherly, though he abstains from the forehead kiss this time—which honestly would be a no-brainer even if he were related to him. The kid is gross. Sweaty and smelly and absolutely minging.

“Wait, wait, wait, oh my god, are you and Mr B. fucking?”

I can’t say for sure if it’s Owen or me who splutters and chokes in our haste to deny it.

“Good for you, Mr B. You get yours,” he says. Then his eyes flutter closed and he’s quiet again.

Owen lets out a long breath laced with suppressed mirth. “I’m so sorry about him. Them both. I’ll clean up any mess they make and I’ll wash your sheets tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I reply, and I realise that for the first time in ages I’m not irritated by the disruption to my routine.

Huh, that’s new. In fact, despite the terrible aroma permeating this room and the fact that tomorrow I’m gonna be doing a lot of scrubbing, I’ve enjoyed this little blip.

I think what I’ve enjoyed most, though, is being around Owen.

He’s friendly and welcoming, like everyone’s mate, but without the laddish jokes like Dan Chelford.

Owen’s warm and easy, and I feel . . . safe around him.

Don’t feel like I’m scrambling to find conversation to fill awkward silences.

I mean, we’ve both been pretty preoccupied with his drunken offspring and her drunken BFF, but I kinda feel like I don’t want this moment to be over.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Wait, did I really just ask him that?

“Don’t you have training tomorrow?”

“Media day,” I reply.

Owen groans in mutual loathing. Nobody likes media day. “Go on, then.” He slaps his thighs and pushes to his feet.

Downstairs, I fill the kettle and flick the switch on. Owen fills up two glasses of water and takes them upstairs.

“Nice T-shirt,” Owen says when he re-enters the kitchen. His eyes settle a little lower than my shirt, but I choose not to say anything. “You go that year? ”

“Yeah.” I pull the front of my shirt out to look at the design—a multicoloured explosion of wiggling lines.

On the back there’s a list of all the bands that played.

“I was . . . twenty-one. Banging line up, but I haven’t been since.

Mostly covid’s fault, I guess.”Also my loathing for crowds. “You ever go?”

“Not in twenty seventeen. I did go in Y2K, though. Saw David Bowie.”

“Oh my god, that must have been brilliant. I’m jealous.”

He smiles at me. The kettle pops. I fill up two cups.

“Milk and one sugar, please,” he says.

“How come you’re up so late?” I ask. Me, Mathias Jones, instigating conversation? What the fuck’s happened to me?

“Ugh, I promised Tom and Bryn I’d include a music round in the quiz tomorrow night, but I have no idea how I’m going to pull it off. I’ve just been googling how to add song clips to a . . . document? I don’t even know.”

I squeeze the teabags and place them on the draining board, dump a sugar into Owen’s mug, and fetch the milk from the fridge. “What are you thinking, like guess the intro or something?”

“Pretty much.” He accepts the tea and leans back against the counter. I resist the urge to trail my gaze down the front of his body. These sweatpants are unforgiving in matters of concealing any . . . sudden protrusions.

“Have you got a laptop?” I ask.

“Yes, but it’s so old. Like, twenty fourteen. Weighs about three metric tonnes.”

I’m smiling again. I haven’t smiled this much in . . . forever probably. “It’s okay, we can use mine. It’s a beast. I’ve left it in the study.” Before I know it, I’ve pushed away from the counter and I’m marching to the cosy extension where the study slash office lies, undisturbed since I moved in.

Owen follows in my wake.

“Take a seat,” I say, offering him the swivel chair, while I run back into the dining room to grab a wooden one. I sit down beside him and open my laptop. “We’re gonna pull an all-nighter.”