Page 1 of Writing Mr. Wrong

GEMMA

G emma Stanton stared down at her newly released first novel and told herself—for the hundredth time—that the kilted Highland laird on the front did not look like Mason Moretti and absolutely no one would realize she’d used the pro hockey player as her inspiration.

While she was sure many sports stars had inspired romance heroes, in this case, it was not a compliment.

Fucking Mason Moretti.

She shook her head, set the book on her lap, and looked around the tiny green room. In the corner, a TV was tuned to Vancouver This Morning . The cheery title card showed a skyline backdrop of a ridiculously blue ocean and a blinding sun that reminded people November would not last forever.

Gemma’s interview would open the show… which wasn’t stressful at all.

She took a few deep breaths. She’d do fine. Just fine.

If only she could stop fretting about her dress.

She should have worn jeans and a sweater.

That’s what she’d picked out and paired with a new pair of boots, and it’d looked good, damn it.

But then the doubt crept in, and she’d grabbed a dress instead.

Now she fretted that she was filling a stereotype—the romance author in a flowery dress and heels.

She hated this anxious version of herself.

She’d written a romance? Deal with it. The book had sex scenes?

It sure did. If she risked being labeled a lonely middle-aged divorcée who poured her most torrid fantasies into a book, she didn’t give a damn.

Anyone who’d spent a decade married to a two-minute champ was entitled to a stockpile of unfulfilled erotic fantasies.

“Gemma?”

She instinctively tensed as a woman slipped into the room. Ashley Porter. Head cheerleader and certified mean girl—

No, Gemma mentally corrected. That had been high school.

Ashley was now host of Vancouver’s hottest morning show, where she was renowned for being a total sweetheart.

When Gemma’s publicist asked about local media contacts, Gemma hadn’t dared include Ashley on the list. It’d been Ashley who reached out and offered this.

The prime morning show slot on Gemma’s release day.

Now Ashley breezed in wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater that could have been the twin of the one Gemma almost wore.

Ashley’s sable hair gleamed under the lights, and her tan whispered of a recent trip south.

The sapphire sweater perfectly matched Ashley’s eyes, and the boots had to have cost triple Gemma’s bargain bin find.

Also, Gemma didn’t fill out her sweater like that. Or her jeans.

Yep, switching to the dress had been a very good call.

As Ashley enveloped Gemma in a hug, the sweet scent of apple and water lily washed over Gemma, and she tensed so hard it was practically a spasm.

Princess by Vera Wang—the same perfume Ashley wore in high school. The same scent she’d worn on the last day of school, when she’d cornered Gemma and leaned in to whisper, “ You really thought Mason would look twice at you, Gemma? Mason Moretti? ”

Present-day Gemma gritted her teeth and admitted that she hadn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine at that age either. All teeth and attitude, as one boy had muttered when she’d flipped him off for smacking her ass.

Ashley released her from the noxious cloud of perfume. “I am so happy for you, Gem. I remember what an amazing writer you were. I always knew I’d see your name on a book someday.”

Gemma tensed again, braced for some snarky comment slammed in on the knifepoint of a cheerful chirp. Twenty years ago, she’d have been ready with a comeback. But she wasn’t that confident and smart-mouthed girl anymore, as much as she was desperately trying to find her again.

Ashley continued, “I’ll admit I couldn’t believe you’d written a romance .” Here it came… “But I’m so glad you did. I love historical fiction, and Laird Argyle is…” Ashley made a swooning noise, hand to her forehead.

Huh. Apparently her writing group had been right. Readers did go for asshole romantic leads.

The first romance Gemma had written featured the kind of guy she liked—sweet and considerate.

When it hadn’t sold, her writing group had talked her into penning what the market seemed to want.

An alpha hero. A self-absorbed, egotistical, inconsiderate, talks-with-his-fists asshole.

So she’d dipped into her past and pulled up the perfect guy for the role.

Mason Moretti had been her school’s golden boy.

The kind of athlete who comes around once in a century.

He’d gone on to play enforcer for the Vancouver Growlers, because of course he did.

To be an enforcer, you had to be an asshole, and Mason was the best. Or the worst, depending on how you looked at it.

The worst. Mason Moretti was definitely the worst.

MASON

Mason Moretti didn’t need anyone to show him to the TV studio green room. Ashley wrangled him on her show every chance she could, and his damned publicist wouldn’t let him say no. But this time was different. He smiled to himself as he reached for the green room door.

“Whoops!” Ashley appeared from nowhere and held the door shut. “Gemma’s in there. Let’s take you down here.”

Ashley led him down the hall, chattering away.

Mason would never say he liked Ashley as a person, but she was useful, and she knew it and used it to her full advantage.

He couldn’t fault her for that, because he used her right back.

Not like that . Never like that. Oh, Ashley had been letting him know that was on the table since high school, but you don’t grow up in the spotlight without being able to smell a baited trap at a hundred paces.

Speaking of baited traps, this whole interview felt a little… unsettling. Suspicious. Ashley said Gemma knew he’d be here, but what if…?

“How’s Gemma?” he asked. “Is she—?”

“She’s fine. Just fine.” Ashley steered him into the makeup room. “Stay in here. Makeup will be in shortly.”

After Ashley left, Mason glanced around the tiny room, with its three salon-style swivel chairs and massive mirrors.

He settled into the middle chair and shrugged off his unease like an ill-fitting shirt.

Worrying didn’t suit him. In this case, it only reminded him of all those years he’d spent worrying that Gemma Stanton hated his guts.

But she obviously didn’t hate him, because she’d written a romance novel with him as the hero. If Gemma had been pissed off, she wouldn’t have hesitated to let him know—with both barrels.

Gemma Stanton…

As Mason propped his feet on the adjoining chair, he remembered the first time he’d spoken to Gemma.

Kindergarten. The cloakroom. It’d been October, the little room overflowing with Halloween decorations.

He’d arrived late, after an early morning lesson, and he’d been hanging up his skates when Gemma walked in from the classroom.

She’d looked from the skates to him. “You skate?”

Under her level gaze, he couldn’t help puffing up. He knew who she was, this little pixie of a girl with freckles and eyes the color of fresh grass and hair that reminded him of a wheat field in fall.

“I play hockey,” he’d said.

“You any good?”

“I’m the best.”

She’d rolled those green eyes and taken something from her cubby. She’d been about to walk away, and he’d been struggling for something to say, when she turned back. Her gaze dropped to his shoes, and she lowered her voice.

“Miss Wang’s sick. We have someone else, and she made Jay sit in the corner for tracking in dirt.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He reached down to switch to his indoor shoes and then looked up to thank her. But she was already gone, leaving him hanging there, wishing he hadn’t been so flustered that he’d forgotten to say thank you .

Gemma had always been nice to him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

He shook that off. The point was that she didn’t hate him. You don’t write a romance novel about a guy you hate, right?

“Mason Moretti,” a voice said from the doorway.

He looked to see a young woman carrying a makeup case.

Late twenties, with a jet-black bob and powdered white skin.

She always did his makeup. Which meant he should know her name, but he was so bad at that.

Too many names, he told himself. Too many people who flitted in and out of his life.

He couldn’t be expected to remember them all…

and yet he was expected to, and when he forgot, it made something in his stomach twist, and his brain shout that he needed to fix this now .

He knew he had had the makeup artist’s name in his contact info for Ashley so he could refresh his memory. It was one of his many tricks for coping in a life where he briefly connected with endless people. But he’d been so focused on seeing Gemma again that he’d forgotten to check his notes.

He glanced at the young woman. When he hadn’t responded, she’d started taking out the little pots, snapping each down with a clack.

He tried to fix it with a broad smile. He might not be the hottest player on the team, but he had all his teeth, which was kind of a miracle, all things considered.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course I do. The best makeup artist in Vancouver.” He smiled again.

“If you don’t remember my name, just admit it.”

“I—”

“It’s Nadia,” she said. “Not that it matters to you.”

Mason’s gut twisted. He did remember her. He’d just temporarily forgotten her name. But it was too late to fix that. It was always too late.

Do better.

They were finishing up when someone rapped on the door. “Two minutes,” a man called.

Nadia studied Mason, hands on her hips. “Can’t work miracles with that mug. How many times have you been hit in the face?”

“It adds character.”

She sighed. Deeply. “It does, damn you. Get up. Let’s go.”

Nadia ushered him into the hall, where a woman waited with a printed photo, pen outstretched. Mason reached for it automatically, only at the last moment remembering to confirm it was a photo of him.

“My daughter is such a fan,” the woman gushed. “She plays hockey, too.”

“Good for her.” He signed the photo as he walked, the woman jogging along beside him. “Maybe she’ll be the first woman in the NHL.”

He always said that. He meant it, but the words sounded hollow, a sentiment repeated too often to have any meaning.

“Hey, Moretti,” a voice called.

Still walking, Mason turned and lifted a hand in automatic greeting.

“I hear Denny is still in the hospital.” A middle-aged guy appeared, face set in an expression Mason knew only too well these days. “You got anything to say about that?”

Mason shrugged. “Hockey’s a rough game.”

He hated the words, but that’s what he’d been told to say. Don’t apologize. Don’t get flustered. Mason wasn’t the one who put the Growlers’ young star center in the hospital. Not his fault the kid got hurt.

Not his fault… unless his actual job was protecting his teammates. Unless he’d seen the guy going for Denny and…

And what, Mason? What happened out there?

He pushed the thought aside as staff members elbowed his accuser away. The guy would get a talking-to later. This was supposed to be a safe space for Mason. No one would mention the incident with Denny. No one would ask what happened out there.

Which was good, because Mason had no fucking idea what happened.

He only knew that he hadn’t done his job, and a brilliant young player went to the hospital. People were pissed off.

And he didn’t blame them.

Didn’t blame them at all.