Page 13 of Writing Mr. Wrong

GEMMA

G emma woke, stretched… and winced as she realized she’d fallen asleep in Mason’s bathrobe. She shouldn’t have even put it on, but it’d looked so warm and cozy that she couldn’t resist.

It’d been as warm and cozy as it looked, and it smelled so good—like Mason’s soap.

She figured she’d wake up first and change back into her dress once it had time to dry. But now Mason’s spot on the sofa was empty, and he’d left her own note turned over with one written on the back. Three words.

Don’t go anywhere.

Her brows rose just before the front door swung open.

“Caffeine delivery for Ms. Stanton.”

Mason walked in with a tray of four drinks, plus a takeout bag hanging off each forearm.

He set the tray down and pointed to the cups. “Pour over, cappuccino, cinnamon latte, and Earl Grey tea.”

“Which one’s yours?”

“Depends on which you take,” he said as he tugged the bags from his forearms.

Her hand hovered over the cappuccino and then veered to the cinnamon latte.

“Good choice,” he said. “I’ll leave the capp as your second choice and have the pour over.”

He pulled foam boxes from the bags. “Breakfast burrito, egg sandwich, quiche bites, and ham and cheese croissant. Again, ladies pick first.”

“Single-handedly keeping your local café in business?”

“There are also…” He opened a box to reveal an assortment of pastries and cookies.

“Damn,” she said. “Thank you.” She reached in for a pain au chocolat. “I’m starving.”

“Shit. That’s right. You didn’t get dinner last night. I should have said to help yourself to my fridge.”

“You couldn’t remember your birth year, Mason. If I’d been hungry enough, I would have helped myself, as I did to your tub and bathrobe.” She made a face. “Sorry about that.”

“You were wearing a cold, wet dress, which was entirely the fault of the guy who made you leave your umbrella in the car. I’m the one who’s sorry. You were more than welcome to my tub and robe.”

She set down the pastry. “My dress should be dry by now. I’ll go put—”

“No rush. Finish your breakfast while it’s warm.”

Someone was feeling gallant today.

Gemma sipped her latte. “I imagine it was a little awkward to wake up to find me still here.”

He grinned. “Waking up to find a woman hasn’t fled in the night? That’s the opposite of awkward.”

She laughed. “Somehow I don’t think women fleeing in the night is a problem you’ve ever had.” She bit back the obvious segue to Camille. “It’s probably more awkward when you wake up to find them still here.”

“Nah. I’d need to bring women to my apartment for that to happen.” He stopped chewing. “That was a jerk thing to say, wasn’t it?”

She smiled. “But the first time you do bring one back, she sticks around, which proved your point. I’ll be gone as soon as I finish this. I’m sure you have a busy day.”

“Nope. Tomorrow’s game day, so today is all about chilling.” He stretched as if to make his point. “Might as well just get comfortable.”

When she hesitated, he said, “Seriously. There’s no rush. You have a lot of food to finish.”

She shook her head, but she did pop the recliner back. “So now that it’s light out, I can see your place properly. Quite the sweet setup.”

His nose wrinkled. “It’s fine.”

“You’ve got a view of the freaking Pacific, Moretti. And the park. How is that just ‘fine’?”

“I mean the decor, which is just…” He shrugged. “What it is.” He took a bite of his breakfast sandwich and said, words muffled by food, “No books. You probably noticed that.”

“Actually I didn’t.” She looked around. There was a built-in bookshelf, but it held trophies and photos. “I’d rather not see any bookcases than see one designed purely for show. Also…” She shrugged. “I know reading isn’t easy for you.”

“I do read. Just audiobooks. Which don’t really count.”

“They definitely count.” She was about to ask what he was reading now, but just because he said he read didn’t mean he always had a book on the go. She wouldn’t put him on the spot like that. “What do you read?”

“Mostly fiction. Guys on the team are more into self-help books, especially those ones about getting better at what you do.”

“Which you don’t need.”

A surprisingly soft laugh. “It just isn’t my thing. I like novels.” He grinned over at her. “I preordered yours.”

Her heart stopped. “What?”

The grin grew. “Just waiting for it to drop. There was some delay, but it’s supposed to come any moment now.”

“Don’t read it, Mason.” She looked him in the eye. “Really.”

When he only gave a half shrug, her stomach knotted. If she’d known he’d bought it, she might have used his face to unlock his phone last night and delete the order, hope he’d just keep thinking it was delayed.

She did not want Mason reading A Highland Fling .

Maybe, in her most malicious moments, she’d fantasized about Mason Moretti finding her book and recognizing himself as her asshole male lead.

But he didn’t deserve that. What she’d poured into that portrayal was twenty years of hurt…

and none of the decent parts she’d viciously edited out.

At least the audio was late. By the time it released, she’d have found a way to gently tell Mason that his portrayal was… less than flattering.

Or maybe she was worrying too much. Early reviewers had loved Laird Tavish Argyle.

He was a buff Scot in a kilt, swinging a sword and defending his land against all comers.

That was hot, right? And if he was also a narcissist who trampled everyone who got in his way?

A cad who treated women like a buffet? Well, that didn’t matter because he was different with Edin, the heroine.

Once he got to know her, he treated her as a person.

God, Gemma hated that narrative. A guy could be an asshole to every other woman, but once he realized the heroine was special, she became the exception. The only exception.

The trope made her grind her teeth… and she’d perpetuated it in her own book.

“Gem?”

She looked over to see Mason frowning at her change of mood.

Laird Argyle wouldn’t even notice a change of mood, not even with his darling Edin.

Gemma balled up her wrapper and lobbed it at Mason. “Back to your condo, I’ve decided I hate you. You have a bathroom nearly as big as my bedroom. You have a massive shower and a massive tub. Who needs both?”

“Mason Moretti?”

“Hate. You.”

“The word is ‘envy,’ Gem. You’re a writer. Words are important.”

She flashed him the finger, making him grin.

“Also,” she said, “you have a bedroom for a motorcycle. A freaking Ducati, Mace.”

“It gets cold at night. I hope you tucked it in.”

She threw the napkin at him next. “Hate you so much.”

“You know motorcycles?”

She sipped her latte. “I had one in uni. Just a little Honda.”

“Do you miss it?” he asked.

She considered the question. She’d given up the motorcycle because Alan said it was too dangerous, and she’d thought it was sweet that he cared about her safety, but really he’d only cared that a motorcycle-riding girlfriend didn’t fit his budding corporate image.

So did she miss it now? That was one of the things about life postdivorce.

It hadn’t been like living in a cage, and the door opens and you fly out, shrieking, I’m free!

She didn’t think of all the things she’d given up, because for her, captivity had been such a slow process that to call it captivity seemed dramatic.

Alan hadn’t physically abused her. Hadn’t overtly emotionally or psychologically abused her. He’d just carved away little bits of her. Slices of her self-confidence and slices of herself, all the things that made her Gemma Stanton. Quirky, opinionated, in-your-face Gemma Stanton.

Like a sculptor with his chisel, Alan had cut off all her inconvenient edges.

A motorcycle. A PhD. Friends. Writing. A deft flick of the knife, and off it went.

He molded her into what he wanted, until only the bare skeleton of old Gemma remained, and then he stood back, surveyed his work, and declared his masterpiece a failure.

He’d worked so damn hard, and she was no better than when he started. A shitty hostess who couldn’t tell the difference between vintage wine and cheap plonk despite flying her to California for a tasting tour. Hell, she couldn’t even have kids. What good was she?

“Gem?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I miss my bike. Maybe, once I’m settled, I’ll get one again.”

“You’ll need to brush up on your riding.” He stood. “How about starting today? Take my bike out. The forecast is clear. Ride up the coast. Give you a chance to get back on the saddle.”

“It’s been fifteen years. You do not want me driving your Ducati.”

“It’s insured. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled. “Let’s have some fun.”

She wanted to keep protesting. She should keep protesting.

Why?

Because…

Because Gemma Stanton was no longer the woman who went motorcycle riding in November? Not the sort who took day trips on a whim? Who let a hockey star refresh her riding skills on his very expensive bike?

Was she really not that woman anymore?

Oh hell, yes she was.