Page 14 of Writing Mr. Wrong

MASON

S ee? Mason still knew how to woo a woman.

It was just a matter of adjusting the strategy to the lady in question, and he’d been out of practice.

He had a hookup type, and that type liked his fantasy dinner date bundle.

Or maybe they were his type because they liked his fantasy dinner date bundle, which kept things easy. No muss, no fuss.

Gemma was different. With her, he didn’t mind a little fuss. Instead of making him uneasy, he saw it as a chance to learn everything he could about grown-up Gemma Stanton.

He’d scored twice already this morning. First, with breakfast, which she’d clearly appreciated. Then the motorcycle lesson and ride, which was a stroke of fucking genius, if he did say so himself.

He’d dug up the second helmet he’d bought shortly after getting his first bike when, in his youth and naivete, he’d been convinced that women loved riding double on motorcycles. He’d suggested it a few times and gotten looks that screamed, Why would I ever want to do that?

In his storage berth, he’d even found an old sherpa-lined aviator-style leather jacket to keep Gemma warm. She’d laughed at the size of it, but she’d also taken it. Score three.

He’d driven Gemma to her apartment in his pickup so she could get changed—he was damn well making sure she stayed warm today. Then back to his place, where he took the bike down the service elevator.

As they walked through the aboveground parking garage, his phone buzzed for the dozenth time in the past hour. He was about to flip it into Do Not Disturb, when he saw the first text.

Terrance: How did last night go?

Mason tensed. No, he wasn’t thinking about that. He was turning off his phone without reading—

“Everything okay?” Gemma asked, and he realized she could see his phone, held awkwardly as he wheeled his bike.

“Just my publicist,” he mumbled. “Asking about last night.”

“Ah.”

Mason started to pocket the phone.

“Should you answer him?”

When he didn’t reply, she lowered her voice. “I know it’s probably not good, but let’s get it over with so we can move on with our day.”

That wasn’t how he handled bad news. But this was Gemma—tear off the bandage and deal with it. He took a deep breath and opened the text stream.

Terrance: I hear there was an altercation

You could call it that.

Terrance: Have you seen the photos?

Mason winced.

A string of photos followed. The first two were Mason and Gemma walking into the restaurant, and damn they looked good.

Well, she looked good. Fucking amazing, in that dress, her curls blowing in the breeze, her chin lifted, smile radiating confidence.

And he looked fine. Okay, better than fine, but mostly because of her.

They made a good pair. “Striking,” that was the word. They made a striking pair.

Then came the next one. Mason with wine on his shirt, Gemma looking horrified, jumping up with a napkin.

His gut plummeted at the memory.

“Mason?” Gemma murmured. “If it’s bad, we’ll deal with it. Or our publicists can. They signed off on the idea.”

He nodded, and with great reluctance, he scrolled to the last photo. Then he stopped.

Shit.

He enlarged the photo. It’d been snapped at the moment the drunk kid took a swing.

An action shot of Gemma leaping between them and Mason reaching to yank her out of the way of that punch.

In this one, it was his turn to look horrified.

All he could see, though, was her expression.

It was fire . Fire in her eyes, fire in the set of her mouth and her jaw.

Goddamn. She looked magnificent.

Terrance: They love that last shot. You defended her at the interview and now she’s throwing herself in front of some drunk frat boy for you? Protecting a f’ing hockey enforcer? People love it.

Those texts had all come earlier. The next few from Terrance were all knocks at his virtual door, trying to get a response. So he sent one.

Mason: This is good, right?

Terrance: This is f’ing amazing. They love it, and it puts them on your side. No one is cheering for the drunken frat boy, especially when he nearly KO’d a schoolteacher

Mason looked over at Gemma and started to smile.

Her brows shot up. “Not that bad?”

“Not bad at all.”

He showed her the text portions, watching her expression, savoring it.

“That’s…” She blinked and then looked up at him and grinned, and he was trying to decide whether he could go for a celebratory hug when her phone chirped with a message.

She looked down at it. “Seems my publicist decided she’s let me sleep late enough. She’s been tracking the online coverage, too.”

“Is it good?”

“Either that or the exclamation mark on her keyboard is stuck. She says—Oh, it seems we have a hashtag. ‘Romancing the Mace’? Uh…”

He snorted. “Not everyone can be a writer. Are they mentioning your book? That’s the main thing. Connecting us to your book.”

“Well, according to her, the hashtag is trending, and A Highland Fling is climbing the online charts.” She quickly added, “In Canada, at least, but it’s starting to spread.”

“That’s good, right?”

She exhaled. “It’s good.”

He checked his phone. “Terrance wants to know what I’m up to today. Is it okay to tell him I’m with you?”

She checked her watch. “It’s almost noon, but I wouldn’t want it to seem… you know.”

“Like you spent the night? Shit. Guess I shouldn’t have sent him those pics of you in my bathrobe.” When her eyes widened, he lifted a hand. “Joking. I wouldn’t do that. No pics without your consent.”

She exhaled. “Thank you. And I guess I’m being silly, worrying about anyone thinking I slept over.

That’s kind of the point. I wouldn’t want any pics of me in your condo, but if we posted shots of today to our personal accounts—with mutual consent—and someone drew the conclusion that we spent the night together, that’s on them. ”

“Yep. So can I say…?”

“We’ll tell them that we’re going for a motorcycle ride. Just let me see any pics before you send or post them.”

“Of course.”

They both tapped messages into their phones, and he rolled the bike into an empty spot in the garage.

“Full confession,” Gemma said. “I’ve never ridden on the back of a motorcycle.”

He grinned, and he was about to say something about her liking the driver’s seat. Then he stopped. No double entendres. Nothing that would make her think today was about seduction.

Well, yeah, it was totally about seduction, but the sort that proved he was someone she wanted to get to know better. Get to know better in every way, obviously, but as a whole package. Because he could be the whole package. Right?

Right?

The smallest bead of sweat formed at his temple, but he swiped it away. Just warm in here when they were dressed for a November ride.

“No problem,” he said. “As you may be able to tell by that shiny helmet, I’ve never had anyone on the back either.”

She paused. “If you’d rather not, just say so.”

“What? No. I meant no one wanted…”

He was about to say no one wanted a ride, but that sounded a little double entendre–y. Also, definitely not true. At least, not in the other sense.

“Women usually prefer my truck,” he said instead.

She frowned. “Really? Weird.”

“I thought so.” He patted the motorcycle seat. “However, just in case that changed, I know the passenger basics. I’m going to get on first and let you climb up.”

This was all going to sound double entendre–y, wasn’t it?

He continued, “Now, it’ll be a tight squeeze.”

Two-minute penalty for misconduct. Also bragging.

“The seat,” he said, motioning quickly. “There’s not a lot of room between me and the back post.”

“Got it. I know there are usually grip bars, but I don’t see those. So where do I hang on?”

Anywhere you like.

He cleared his throat. “With the tight squeeze, you don’t really need grip bars.”

Was he actually discouraging her from hanging on to him? That went too far.

He continued, “But once we’re on the open road, you will want something to hold on to,” he said. “Just wrap your arms around me.”

Did she blush as she nodded?

“Or you can steady yourself by holding on to my hips,” he said.

Yep, she was definitely blushing.

“You can also hook your hands around my thighs.”

Now her cheeks went scarlet as she leaned over the bike, murmuring, “Mmm-hmm.”

“Whatever feels…” He was about to say “best” but switched to “safest.” Then he touched her hand, making her jump.

“Hey,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I want you to be safe, but I also want you to be comfortable. No matter where you put your hands, I’m going to presume it’s to hold on and nothing else, okay?”

Her lips twitched. “No matter where I put my hands?”

And that was a puck pass. Just not enough of one for him to reply that she could grip on to anything she wanted.

“No matter what non-distracting place you put your hands,” he said, though he was pretty damn sure it was all going to be distracting.

She tugged on her helmet as he climbed aboard and leaned the bike her way, bracing on one leg. It took her a few tries. Then she was up and sliding down right against the small of his back, her body pressed to his, her legs wrapped around his.

Tight quarters indeed.

He grinned, pulled down his visor, and motioned for her to hold on.