Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
When he’d requested they bring along the family album, it’d seemed the perfect boyfriend thing to do. Pity pineapple had gone and ruined his chance to look at it. He’d been looking forward to seeing toddler Owen. It was . . . quite hard to imagine all that dazzling togetherness had ever thrown a tantrum.
Of course there was always tomorrow, but alone, without parental fondness wrapping the little images with affection and humour . . .
Not the same.
“Wait, I have some in the kitchen china cabinet.” Music. To. His. Ears.
“What? Which?” Owen asked, alarmed.
“Those ones you keep trying to throw out.”
Owen stirred in his chair, hand tapping restlessly on his knee. “You saved them again?”
“You can’t toss out memories like that, son.”
The flush on Owen’s cheeks. Colour Jason intrigued. “What are these memories, Owen?”
“Nothing you need to see.”
“He was about thirteen, maybe fourteen,” Renee said. “He thought he looked like a wrestler, but really he was a gangly teenager in his grandma’s skimpy leotards that she hadn’t worn since the eighties. Lots of spandex.”
Jason sank to his knees between Owen’s legs and clasped his hands together. His forearms butted denim-clad inner thighs that squeezed against him briefly in surprise. “Please?”
Renee and Nathan erupted into yawns and stretches and suddenly they were heading to bed, their slippered steps sloughing down the hall.
Owen closed his eyes briefly. “Bed is an excellent idea.”
“But you . . . in leotards.”
Owen hauled him to his feet and marched him away from the kitchen and its china cabinet.
Laughter bubbled out of him. “I’ll get my hands on those pictures, Sergeant Owen Stirling, Sir.”
A curled whisper at his nape. “Just you try.”
Jason rubbed the ticklish spot. Challenge accepted. He’d sneak out of the guestroom as soon as Owen’s back was turned—
Owen flung open a door. Struck the light.
The moment he saw the Socceroos poster pinned above the king-single bed, it hit him: there’d be no sneaking out of the guestroom.
Gravity fled and his stomach dove after it. He spun around. “I get to sleep with you?”
Chapter Ten
Owen cupped his hips with cop-like efficiency and steered Jason into his childhood bedroom, over a wool rug, past a net of soccer and basket balls, to a blanketed trunk near a sturdy desk. Was this where young Owen had written his essays? Studied for his exams? A few stacks of books sat at one end. Mysteries. Hard boiled cops and cozies. He knew it!
Jason’s arse hit the trunk. Owen told him to stay put and kept one eye on him as he fished for T-shirts from his drawers. He passed one over. “For bed.”
Jason fingered the soft material as he eyed the king single. Owen was measuring it too. It was suddenly hard to imagine them both fitting in there. In fact, it was hard to imagine just Owen fitting in there.
A tiny nervous thrill zig-zagged through him. Well, anyone popping their head in tomorrow morning would believe they were boyfriends.
Jason gulped and jerked his attention to the rug. “Is this where all the leotard action happened?”
Owen laughed, then turned away from Jason and the shirt he was practically inhaling. “Get changed and make yourself at home.”
“Where are you going?”
“To shower.” Quieter. “Or I’ll get dirty all over you.”
“You smell good to me.”
The door shut with a decided snick.
Jason stripped and pulled Owen’s large T-shirt over his head, but he didn’t climb into bed. This was his chance, and he fully intended to take it—find these photos, bring one back and plant it on the pillow, then peek out between his lashes to watch Owen’s reaction.
Maybe Jason would have to jump onto his back so he couldn’t reach the bin to throw it away. Or maybe Owen would scoop him up and drop him on the living room couch as punishment—he’d still have Mary, so he could live with that.
He couldn’t really say why he was so insistent on playing this game, but . . . it felt teasing, light-hearted, very much what a boyfriend might do for fun.
Dressed in nothing but his boxers and Owen’s T-shirt, Jason snuck into the dark hall. Strips of light came from a bathroom halfway up, just before the stairs. He tiptoed along. The last thing he needed was Owen recognising the groan of wood.
He didn’t make it to the stairs.
He was blocked by a tartan dressing gown and an old man with a mischievous grin. “You all right there, Carl?”
Jason’s gaze darted around for an explanation. He couldn’t very well say he wanted to sneak about in the kitchen. It wasn’t particularly dignified behaviour for a guest in their home, and quite frankly, Owen’s dad had seen him behave peculiarly enough today.
“Just, um, I was . . .” He jerked his thumb towards the bathroom door and the sound of rushing water coming from the shower behind it.