Owen paused, staring at his screen. “Yes, well. Doubt I’ll be seeing them any time tonight.”
Right. They’d both be late if they didn’t get moving.
Jason grabbed hold of Owen’s forearm, soft light hairs tickling his palm, and tugged him over the threshold. “Be my personal watchman while I dress. Promise I’ll be quick.”
Jason tried to keep his door closed as he changed, but a creak from the vicinity of the bed had him tripping over the baggy jeans he’d been stripping out of and flinging open the door.
Owen—who kindly, patiently, waited in the hallway gazing at the ceiling from his position propped against the wall—glanced at Jason’s flurried commotion. Something flashed across his face, but Jason had known him long enough now that he could dismiss it as surprise. In fact, as quick as the flicker in his eye had come, it settled again. An air of I expected something like this was coming from him now.
Jason stomped out of the jeans and, casually as he could, thumbed over his shoulder. “I, ah, might need you to peek into dark places?”
Owen graciously swept into his room—a little smirk at his lips—and thoroughly investigated the underside of Carl’s bed.
“All clear.”
Jason had yanked his tightest jeans on in the meantime—that way, if something got free, maybe the denim and his socks would be an impediment.
He shrugged his shirt on and paused. “I swear I heard something.”
“It’s an old bed and an older house.” Owen’s eyes slipped down to Jason’s stomach, where—oh hell, he was poking buttons into the wrong holes. Owen cleared his throat.
Jason undid the buttons and started over, glancing at the old bed. He should have considered this. He owned a 1905 villa for crying out loud. “My wood groans too.”
Owen jerked his eyes up.
Jason absorbed all that dark-eyed curiosity and smiled. “Yes, I have my own home and my own life—and it’s quite different from Carl’s. Although, we’ve obviously both got groaning wood that needs tending to.”
Owen walked out of the room. Just turned and swept out.
“Owen?”
A grumble came around a bend in the hall, unintelligible.
Jason finished the last of his buttoning, grabbed his wallet, stuffed his feet into his nicest sneakers and raced after him.
Jason thought he’d park somewhere in the town centre and they’d go their separate ways, but Owen pulled up close to Trinity and strode alongside him to the doors.
Jason halted. In all his talk of his date tonight Owen hadn’t asked which restaurant he was meeting Daniel at, and Jason hadn’t mentioned it either.
He rang out an amused laugh. “Don’t say you’re having dinner here.”
Owen opened the door and beckoned him inside. “I’m having dinner here.”
“What are the odds!”
Owen pinned him with quite the expressionless look. “Inevitable, really.”
Jason frowned. Then nodded. Small towns. Of course everyone would know everyone and bang into everyone, and eat dinner at the same restaurant, too. He entered the pretty establishment—high ceilings, beautiful coastal artworks, and a pleasant kind of light that made patrons look fabulous—and Owen slid next to him.
None of the tables hosted any lone men. Daniel mustn’t have arrived yet.
“Owen?” He twisted and looked up at him. “Do I look . . . okay?”
“Okay?”
“Good enough he won’t spot me and leave?”
Owen touched his shoulder, maintaining eye contact. “Why on earth would anyone do that?”
A light laugh flittered out of Jason, soft and sweet as a butterfly and reflected in Owen’s smile. “I know it’s fake, but I had the sudden fear he’d be expecting”—Jason swept hands up and down, encompassing all of Owen’s Oweness—“more of that.”
Jason stepped closer and plucked stray dog fur off Owen’s sleeve.
Owen gave him a twinkly-eyed smile. “You look amazing, Jason.” He dipped, and words skated over the tip of his ear. “Have a great fake date.”
Owen drew back and Jason’s skin kept tickling.
Someone behind them cleared their throat to hurry them along, and an approaching waitress gestured to the room and told them to sit where they pleased. Straightening himself, Jason flashed Owen a nervous grin. “Enjoy your dinner, too.”
“I sure will.”
Jason beelined to a free table. He started for one at the window, which would have given him a great overview of everyone coming into the restaurant, but then the grand piano in the corner caught his attention, and he swerved toward a table near that.
Gosh, Daniel had knocked it out of the park when he’d suggested this place.
He slid into a chair, gazing at the beautiful instrument bereft of a musician, and wondered if he could just . . . No. Focus. Flirting. Fake flirting.
Owen took a seat opposite him at the two-person, white-clothed table.
“Uh, Owen?”
“Yes?”
“Daniel will never find me if you’re camping here. Could you maybe wait at the bar for your parents? I can text you if you want to look busy.”
“Thank you, no need. I’m not eating out with my parents tonight.”