Jason’s breath came out light and uneven.
Carefully, Owen plucked at the buckle, and the collar loosened. A finger wriggled under the strap, over the point where Jason’s pulse pounded. It lingered there a few seconds, then the leather came off his neck in a long, shivery slide.
Jason extracted himself from the thin air between them.
He was . . . all nerves, his whole body thrumming with anticipation. They would have to act . . . close. Like lovers . . .
There was so much to get right. Their parents would be analysing everything. Including these mortifying sneak peeks of him before dinner had even started, apparently. Not exactly the most dignified beginning.
He rolled his shoulders and locked up shop.
Never mind. It wasn’t like things could get worse.
“Oh God, oh God. I’ve killed her.”
Jason paced outside the ER, away from a distraught Cora in the waiting room. They hadn’t even made it to dinner. The second Jason and Owen had arrived home, they’d been pounced upon by their families, who were all too eager to wait for six o’clock. Which meant there’d been no time to practice anything or come up with their story, and in a fit of nerves, Jason had beelined Owen into the kitchen to help make cocktails.
A nice way for everyone to relax.
Or so he’d thought.
He tipped his head toward the dark sky. Wind was really whipping around them now. Rain dropped into his eyes. “Oh God.”
Owen latched onto his hand and pulled him close, tucking him against his chest. “She’s fine. She had her epi pen, and she’s being checked for good measure. You haven’t killed anyone.”
Jason wriggled closer and ground his forehead on Owen’s shoulder. “Pineapple.”
A soft sigh breezed warmly through his hair.
“Carl never would have . . .”
“You’re not Carl.”
“Please, please don’t tell her I did it. I mean, of course you have to tell her, but I really don’t want her to know.”
Owen shifted them, shielding Jason from the thickening rain. “This was an accident. Deep breaths. In . . . and out. . . . And in.”
Jason breathed deeply, the air cocooned between them a soft, living thing. It expanded through him with medicinal calm, and slowly, slowly he stopped shaking. Hands kept stroking him. They’d both left their jackets at home in the rush, and Owen’s warm palms made an imaginary blanket over his back.
“Thank you, Owen.”
“For what?”
“Not throwing me in jail for negligent almost-manslaughter?”
“It wasn’t even close. You got that pen in her within seconds, Jason. I’ve never seen you move so fast, and boy have I seen you move fast.”
Jason laughed and squeezed Owen’s sides with his wrists, hands balled in T-shirt. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m drowning in remorse.”
“How about doing that another time, hm? Patricia and Cora are coming out and they look just fine.”
Jason snapped his head up. There they were, aunt and niece, arm in arm and heading towards them.
Jason let go of Owen and darted over, fuelled on the energy of guilt and relief. Patricia looked a little flushed, but she was breathing.
“How are you?”
“What was that?” she called over a whistling wind.
“How are you?”
She nodded. “Fine, darling. The wind. Let’s chat in the car.”
Chat.
Oh, Christ. He had to tell them what happened. Jason’s stomach knotted and the car came into view far too quickly for his liking.
Jason slung himself in the front beside Owen and they were all belted in and sealed off from the howling wind within the minute. When he twisted to look Patricia—healthy, smiling even—over, Cora was patting her arm across the middle seat. Side by side, the resemblance between them was striking—Cora could have been the Patricia of twenty years ago.
She murmured jokingly, “Your horoscope did say there’d be some ups and downs this month . . .”
“Sorry, Mum,” Jason said quietly. They both looked at him, then Cora quickly looked out the window. “I was nervous, about tonight—I thought cocktails would help—”
“And I completely forgot about your allergy, Patricia,” Owen said smoothly, turning out onto the road.
Jason startled.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to take the blame for me, Carl. You told me about the allergy and I forgot.” He looked in the rear-view mirror. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Patricia waved a hand. “Let’s just call this memorable.”
Jason would remember it all right. This swooping relief, and this tender fluttering in his chest. Owen, cop, upholder of the law, lying on his behalf. Taking this weight from him.
He rubbed his chest over the throb.
“Speaking of,” Patricia continued, gesturing between them, “you’ve been neighbours for years. How did this happen?”
Oh God! They’d had no time—
Owen landed a hand on Jason’s thigh and squeezed, flooding him with silent assurances. Nothing to worry about. A gentle rub followed another squeeze and Owen’s laugh turned into a story. A . . . familiar one. “There was an issue one night with a wallaby.”