Page 12 of Writing Mr. Wrong

GEMMA

T hat had been the happy-for-now ending. The actual ending started the next day, when Gemma arrived at school to discover that someone had snapped a photo of her and Mason making out… and his friends were claiming he’d done it on a dare.

She’d been furious, but Mason would set them straight. She’d been sure of that.

It took all day. Then she was in the newspaper office, clearing out her things, when Mason came in and shut the door.

“Hey, Gem.”

She’d kept emptying her desk, possibly smacking each item onto the top a little harder than necessary.

“So, uh, you may have heard—” he began.

She looked up so sharply he inched backward. “That you kissed me on a dare? Yes, I heard.”

“I didn’t. My friends are just being jerks. I told them to stop.”

She looked at him. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocked on his heels, and shrugged. “I wanted you to know it wasn’t true.”

“Okay, now I know.”

She waited for the apology. She waited for him to come closer, try to kiss her again, and she’d duck out, still angry, but they’d talk and work it out.

Instead, he just stood there, rocking. “No hard feelings?”

She tried not to stare, even as her heart clenched. That wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t the prelude to another kiss. It didn’t even sound…

Oh God, it didn’t even sound as if he planned to kiss her again. He had his gaze down, hands in his pockets, like he’d come to give her a chance to blast him and then he could flee. Take his lumps and get the hell out of her life.

“No hard feelings about the rumor?” she said. “Or the kiss?”

“Both,” he mumbled, and her heart cracked, but she slammed it back together and straightened.

“It was just a kiss,” she said. “No big deal.”

“Yeah…” His shoulders slumped. “Just a kiss.”

“I need to get my things. They want the office cleared out.”

“Sure.” He backed up to the door and reached behind him for the knob. “So you’re okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Yeah. Good. Um, so… I’ll see you around?”

She didn’t answer, just kept clearing the desk, and he left. She spotted him a few times over the last days of school, but he never spoke to her again.

She’d spent a long time being hurt. A long time feeling humiliated. A long time hating Mason Moretti. And now?

Now she didn’t hate him. Didn’t forgive him either, because that would take an apology, which he hadn’t given.

With the hindsight of nearly twenty years, she finally understood what had happened that day.

He’d kissed her, and then he’d had second thoughts, and if he’d been a decent guy, he’d have said so.

Mason could be a decent guy. He could also be an asshole. And in that moment of his life, he’d been a very certain kind of asshole—a teenage boy who messed up and didn’t know how to handle it, so he didn’t handle it.

While adult Mason still hadn’t apologized, he did seem to understand that he’d hurt her.

He hadn’t made excuses, and he’d been clear that he hadn’t kissed her on a dare.

He’d owned up to the fact that he’d done a shitty thing, and she could grumble, but she’d rather he took responsibility for the mistake than give a half-hearted apology.

Gemma shook off the memories and returned to the living room. Seeing Mason awkwardly slumped on the sofa, she sighed.

“Let’s give this another go, shall we?” she said.

She took his hands and tried pulling him to his feet… and nearly ended up on his lap. She put his arm over her shoulders… and nearly ended up in a headlock. And throughout it all, he snored.

Gemma crossed her arms and gave him a very disapproving look. He continued snoring.

At the very least, she felt she should get him out of that soaking wet shirt.

Oh hell, no. You are not playing out that scene, Stanton.

She smiled to herself. True, it was a romance staple.

Buff hero needs to remove his shirt—as often as possible.

Caught in the rain. Wounded in a fight. Sweaty with fever.

Really, the only reason for even putting a buff romance hero in a shirt was so you could take it off again at the first good—or semi-plausible—excuse.

But removing Mason’s shirt was just common sense. He couldn’t afford to catch a cold during hockey season.

That’s not how viruses work.

Or the stain might set.

It’s red wine. On a plum shirt. You can’t even see it.

Didn’t matter. Getting Mason out of this shirt was a necessity.

The top button was undone. She flipped the next one and then the next, slowly revealing a line of dark hair and golden skin.

Also muscles. The more she undid, the more muscles there were, and she told herself that would end soon.

He was thirty-six, and he might be in amazing shape, but there was no need for a hockey player to have a six-pack.

God knows, when she hit thirty, that’s where her extra ounces went.

And… that is not where they went on Mason. The only things marring his perfectly flat stomach were muscles. Damn him. She swallowed and resisted the urge to run her fingers down his chest, even if they were close enough to feel the heat of his skin, and that smell of orange and cloves.

If her mouth was watering, it was the smell. She’d missed dinner. Salivating had nothing to do with the delicious sight revealed, inch by inch, as she carefully peeled away his shirt, and then it was off and—

Damn it. Mason had not looked like this in high school. Oh, he’d taken off his shirt plenty back then, stripping from a sweaty jersey as girls ogled. But he’d been a teenager, lean and fit and just starting to show signs of the muscles to come.

The muscles that had arrived. The body of an NHL enforcer. Bulging biceps. Ripped pecs. Muscled abs. Perfectly toned forearms and big square hands—

He needed a blanket. She looked around the shadowy room and spotted several throws neatly stacked by the fireplace.

After much effort and maybe a few unavoidable touches of that warm skin, she got him lying down on the sofa.

Then she quickly pulled the blanket over him and stepped back, panting from exertion.

“You really aren’t waking up, are you?”

Snore.

“Here’s my dilemma, Mace. It’s seriously awkward hanging out in your condo all night without an invitation. But if you’re that deeply asleep, and you drank more than you’re used to, I’m concerned about you throwing up in your sleep.”

Snore.

“So I guess I’m just praying when you wake up you don’t think it was weird that I stayed. You won’t think it was weird, right?”

Snore.

“And if I had a bath while you slept. Would that be weird?”

Snore.

“You’re such a good host.” She patted his head, rearranging his damp hair. Then she found a paper and pen and left a note, in case he woke and heard someone in his bathroom.

That accomplished, she started the bathwater. The tub was huge, and in reaching for the taps, she hit the soap and knocked it in. As she fumbled for it, a familiar scent filled the room.

Orange and cloves.

Heat flooded through her, and an image formed in the steam. Mason, in the tub, lying back, naked—

Enough of that.

She peeled off her still-wet dress and caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror.

Not bad, right? She wasn’t Camille, but she looked pretty good for thirty-six. Especially through a layer of steam. She laughed softly to herself. No, she wasn’t playing the age game. She looked just fine.

Fine enough to catch the eye of—

Enough.

She lifted one leg over the tub and lowered herself in, hissing with pleasure as the hot water washed over her clammy skin. She sunk down and moaned softly. This felt so good.

A steaming hot bath after bitter November rain. A bath that smelled of oranges and cloves. A bath that had last seen Mason Moretti, not just shirtless, but naked, sinking into this same tub.

A tub that was big enough for two. Even if one was Mason Moretti.

Enou—

She stopped mid-rebuke and tilted her head, considering. Was there anything wrong with going there? She was a romance novelist after all. Consider it research.

She smiled and, as she sunk deeper into the tub, she let her imagination run wild.

MASON

That night, Mason had the weirdest dreams. He remembered getting into the taxi—after Gemma insisted on buying a bottle of water from the bar, which she made him drink on the way to his condo.

He remembered, too, that he’d tried to give the cabbie her address, but she wanted to make sure he got up to his place safely, which he certainly wasn’t going to argue with.

The rest was flashes. Gemma pulling him from the cab.

Him forgetting how to get in the building front door, where the elevator was, what the code was for his condo door…

There’d been a lot of forgetting, and a lot of “Come on, it’s just a few more steps, you can do it,” Gemma propping him up and encouraging him like a skating instructor with a toddler.

Then the world went blank, and he got the weird dreams instead. Gemma talking to him. Coaxing him. Pulling. Wheedling. And finally, undressing him, which had been sexy as hell.

He woke on the couch to find he had indeed been undressed. Well, his shirt was off, at least. He’d been covered up, which was disappointing, but also sweet and…

He stretched, rolling his back up off the sofa. His mouth felt like something died in it, but there were no signs of a hangover. That’d be why Gemma made him drink the water. At the time, he’d been too fuzzy headed to figure it out and only drank because she told him to.

He stretched again, and his hand hit a paper on the console table. He picked it up and blinked against the morning gloom as his eyes focused.

Mason,

Advance warning that I’m still here, so please don’t take a swing at the stranger sleeping on your recliner. I didn’t feel right leaving you alone when you were passed out. If you wake up first, just give me a kick and send me on my way.

Gem

Mason lifted his head and blinked as he saw that Gemma was indeed on his recliner. How the hell did he miss that? He grinned as he sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his knees while he considered the situation.

The situation being that Gemma Stanton was asleep in his condo. Which was absolutely not a problem, and he was absolutely not sending her on her way. Now, what he needed to consider was how to make sure she didn’t wake up and head straight out the door.

Last night had been a disaster. He wouldn’t say everything was fine now. But Gemma came back and listened to him—in the bar and in the cab—and now she’d stayed to look after him, and he was damn well not letting her slip away.

Small goals first. Get her to stay through breakfast and then figure out how to get her to spend the day with him.

For years, Mason had looked back on Gemma Stanton and declared that what he’d felt for her had been nothing more than teen angst and hormones. He hadn’t really fallen for her. He couldn’t have, right? Not if he’d been such an asshole at the end.

Having her back in his life proved it’d been a lot more than angst and hormones, because what he felt for Gemma had started before angst and hormones even hit.

There was a reason he’d spent the first half of his life trying to catch her attention.

Inviting her to skate after school. Bragging in front of her whenever he made MVP.

Getting her behind the school for a kiss…

and then realizing that was a silly idea and showing her a bug instead, which was, yep, just as silly.

There was a reason, when he’d been struggling in English, and his teacher suggested working on the newspaper, he’d pounced. That was a great idea. In fact, he knew the editor from grade school. If his teacher could just ask Gemma to work with him directly, that’d be perfect.

And then he did the truly shittiest thing he’d ever done in his life, which as Jesse would say, was quite an achievement. After that, he knew he’d lost any chance with her, which had been…

Devastating.

And also… a relief?

It was complicated, and he would not analyze that.

The important thing was that she’d forgiven him enough to write him as the romantic hero in her book.

That didn’t mean she wanted to date him.

He was pretty sure she actually didn’t. But it meant that door had cracked open, and he was shoving his foot in the gap as fast as he could.

Gemma Stanton was in his condo. Sleeping on his recliner, adorably curled up sideways, one bare foot sticking out. His gaze slid along that foot, up her calf to—

He’d thought she was under a blanket. Now he realized she’d fallen asleep wearing his bathrobe. She must have been freezing from that rain and taken a shower or a bath. Then she’d grabbed his bathrobe and slid into it.

Mason pushed to his feet to get a better look. She looked hot in that dress last night, but it was nothing compared to seeing her in his bathrobe.

It was like an alternate version of last night, where everything had gone perfectly, that old fire between them roaring to life, Mason bringing her home, to his bed, where he never brought anyone, but she was Gemma.

The OG. The girl he’d always wanted in his bed.

And now she was finally there, when he’d shown her why he was so much better at thirty-six than he’d have been at seventeen.

He imagined all the ways he’d shown her.

Well, that was one way to start his morning. Gemma Stanton, in his bathrobe, while he sported the raging hard-on of a horny teen.

He reminded himself none of that happened and she was only wearing his robe because she’d had a shower. Something he should probably do himself.

Take a shower… where he accidentally left the door open and she walked in to see him naked, lathered up and hard as rock.

She’d stand there, watching, thinking he couldn’t see her, but he could, through the mirror in the shower, and he’d watch her as his hand dropped to his cock.

She’d stay in the doorway, her lips parted, breath coming faster, her excitement fueling his and—

He inhaled deeply, took one last look at her, and then headed to the shower to finish playing out that scene.

When he got out of the shower—wrapped only in a towel because she had his bathrobe—she still didn’t wake. He padded into the kitchen. He’d cook breakfast. She couldn’t leave if he’d done that.

He opened the fridge. He’d made blintzes yesterday: cheese with berry sauce. He could fry those up for a breakfast combo, add in some turkey sausages.

He hesitated. What if Gemma didn’t like blintzes? What if she expected bacon? Or pork sausages? While his parents hadn’t kept kosher, they didn’t eat pork, and Mason followed suit.

He could follow a recipe and knew the techniques, but he lacked his grandmother’s genius with food. Stick with what he was good at. Stay in the safe lane.

He shut the fridge door. He’d get takeout.