Page 24 of Writing Mr. Wrong

MASON

G emma had said yes.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly yes. She said she’d like to “discuss parameters,” which meant she’d passed the puck his way. He just needed to get it into the net.

He texted back inviting Gemma and her grandmother out for a drink. As exhausting as a game was, he was always too wired to go straight home. The Growlers had won, which meant a celebration, but with Mason being the team’s old-timer, no one blinked if he bowed out.

Mason gave a few sound bites to the media and then shed his sweaty padded uniform, showered, dressed, and took the side door to where Gemma promised to wait for him.

One of the rink rats would drive Gemma’s car home for her, then swing by the pub and take Mason’s truck to his place, leaving them to call a driver after they’d had their drinks.

Mason met Gemma’s grandmother, who was adorable and would probably cut him for saying so.

But then Mrs. Waters decided it was past her bedtime.

Mason insisted on driving her home while bracing for Gemma to declare she’d had a long night, too.

She didn’t. She was quiet, though, and he wasn’t sure how to read that.

They finally reached the pub, a little place where Mason could find privacy after a game. When he walked in, he got the obligatory backslaps and high fives and “Mace!” and “Good game!”

The regulars and the staff formed a shield to keep them from being harassed by other patrons. If a phone rose for a photo, someone would stick their hand in front of it. The pub wanted the cachet of having Growlers stop by postgame, so they needed to make sure it was a safe space.

When one young couple tried to sneak a photo, Mason spun on them with a growled “Hey!”

The young woman took the guy’s phone so fast you’d think Mason was about to throw a punch. He snorted under his breath. He never hit anyone who didn’t hit first. A growl was enough, along with the scowl he fixed on the couple, making them both shrink back.

“Sorry,” the young woman mumbled. “It was for my little brother. He’s a big fan.”

Mason was about to keep walking. Then he saw Gemma, and her expression was impassive, no judgment, but if he said he wanted to be less of an asshole…

“Take it,” he said, stepping away from Gemma.

The young woman shot the pic and then glanced at Gemma and motioned, asking her to get into the picture. So she’d recognized Gemma, and maybe she did want a shot of Mason for her little brother, but she also wanted a shot of Mason and Gemma for social media.

Mason shook his head. “She didn’t sign up for this.”

“It’s fine,” Gemma murmured.

He nodded and put his arm around her waist, tugging her in. Once the photo was snapped, he motioned that he wanted the phone. The young woman hesitated, as if seeing a vision of it being hurled across the room.

“Show me the pic,” he said.

She did, and he let Gemma confirm it was fine. Then he said, “You can post it, but you can’t say where we are.”

The young woman nodded, and Mason and Gemma got five more steps before someone called, “Ms. G!”

Gemma glanced around, and Mason saw a young man behind the bar, slinging his towel over his shoulder as he walked to the gate.

The bartender pulled Gemma into a tight hug that made Mason’s hackles rise.

He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders and told himself there’d be none of that shit.

This was obviously a former student, and Gemma was going to be a popular teacher who got a lot of hugs from former students, some of them handsome young men.

Mason pasted on a smile and hoped it didn’t look feral. The kid didn’t notice. He was too busy talking to Gemma. Mason walked over to hear the conversation.

“Yeah, I got a job in banking,” the kid said. “Entry level. Bartending is what pays the bills, though. And the student loans.”

“I hear you,” Gemma said. “I tended bar for three years while teaching so I could pay off my master’s.”

Mason mentally filed this away. Gemma had been a bartender. She had a master’s degree. All added to his growing tally of data.

He also realized that his hackle-rise was only partly about a good-looking guy hugging Gemma. It was also a spark of envy for anyone who’d had Gemma for a teacher. He remembered how good she’d been coaching him with those newspaper articles, how patient and supportive.

The kid finally noticed Mason and gave a start. Then he put out a hand. “Mr. Moretti. I’ve seen you in here, but haven’t had the pleasure. Great game.”

Mason nodded and kept that hopefully nonferal smile in place.

“We should get a table,” Gemma said.

“What can I make you?” the bartender called after they said goodbye.

“Something sweet and sour,” she called back. “Surprise me.”

“Mr. Moretti?”

“Beer. Surprise me.”

Mason led Gemma to his usual booth at the back. There were three in a row with Reserved signs on them.

“All ours,” he said, taking the middle one.

“Nice,” she said.

He shrugged. “The perks of being…”

She smiled. “Mason Moretti?”

“Yeah.” He slid out a menu. “I know you ordered nachos at the rink, but the ones here are actually good. Steak nachos?”

“Yes, please.”

He leaned out and called the order. Then they discussed the game, a bit awkwardly, Gemma obviously nervous.

He waited until the drinks arrived, and then said, “Okay, you mentioned setting parameters.”

She scrunched her nose. “That sounded very teacher-y, didn’t it?”

“Nope. It sounded reasonable. Yeah, this is about me learning to be less of a Laird Argyle, but it’s equally about you finishing your book, and I don’t want that to get lost.”

“Thank you. Before we begin, though…” She took a deep breath and a fortifying slurp of her blue cocktail. “I hate talking about my ex. It gives him a power I don’t want him having. But in this case, it’s pertinent.”

She looked up at him. “Alan tried to change me. He bought a fixer-upper and got a money pit. Nothing he could do was going to turn me into the kind of wife he wanted.”

“Because he’s a prick who has such shitty taste that he buys an amazing house and tears it down to put up a new one.”

She smiled slightly. “Thanks, but my point is that I’ve been the subject of an unwanted makeover, which makes me really uncomfortable with what you’re asking for.” She shredded a strip off her napkin. “Your personal style works for you, Mace.”

“Does it, though?” He leaned forward. “When I was a young player, I was always watching others, trying to learn. Sometimes, I’d see them making mistakes and I’d think, ‘Do I do that?’ I saw what Argyle did in your book and realize I do the same shit.

I’m not asking you to change me, Gemma. I’m asking you to help me see what makes me an asshole.

Then it’s up to me to decide what I want to change. ”

He gestured toward the front of the restaurant. “I snapped at those kids for trying to sneak a photo. Asshole or not asshole?”

“Not,” she said decisively. “They were sneaking that snap because you clearly didn’t want one.” She paused. “But it was nice of you to let them take it, and I appreciated that you let me choose whether or not I was in it and letting me check the picture.”

“See? Stuff like that. Sometimes, though, yeah, I’m going to be an asshole. I choose to be.”

“You kinda have to, Mace. Refusing photos might seem an asshole move, but they disrespected your privacy.”

He leaned over, touching his fingers to hers, the barest contact. She didn’t pull away, just stared down at his hand, and he carefully risked putting his fingertips over hers.

“You didn’t ask me to read that book,” he said. “Hell, you told me not to. You’ve done nothing to suggest you want me to change. But I also know that…” He shrugged. “When I make a dick move, you start thinking maybe twenty years wasn’t long enough.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Not that exactly .”

“But kinda that.”

She exhaled, long and slow. It wasn’t an answer, but he could see the net, the shot lined up.

“Parameters,” he said. “I’ll hire a vacation planner, but you’re in charge of all decisions.”

She nodded and sipped her drink. So far, so good.

“You choose the destination,” he said. “You pick the rooms. Is a two-bedroom suite okay? Or would you prefer two suites? I want you to be comfortable.”

“Two bedrooms is fine. We also need a kitchen and a living room. I’m going to want multiple writing spots, preferably a desk or table plus a recliner or sofa where I can put my feet up and work on my laptop.”

“Tell the planner, and they’ll get whatever you want. Now, I did promise to cook, and I won’t renege on that. Just don’t expect gourmet.”

She smiled at that. “All I care about is that I’m not cooking.”

“Okay, well, my repertoire is…” He shrugged. “Limited. I can follow a recipe, though. You could send me ones you like.”

“What do you usually make?”

“My grandmother taught me to cook, so it’s mostly stuff from our restaurant.”

Gemma perked up. “You can make food from Nonna Jean’s?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I order from there all the time.” She paused, as if she’d given away something she didn’t mean to, and then plowed on. “I get delivery.”

“I’ve never seen your name.”

She hesitated, as her cheeks pinked. “I, uh, use my married one. Which is silly, I know. Not like you’d have recognized mine and you’re the owner—you aren’t handling takeout orders.”

“I’ve done pretty much everything from line cook to delivery. The only thing I don’t do is front of house.” He smiled. “I am a shitty server.”

Also, he absolutely would have recognized her name, even if he’d just been flipping through orders. Now he was going to have to look it up and see what she got.

“So that’s what I cook,” he said. “Italian. Jewish. Jewish Italian. The restaurant is kosher. I’m not, but I usually eat turkey sausage and turkey bacon, though obviously I’ll get whatever you want.”

“No, that’d be fine. I wouldn’t want you cooking anything you can’t eat yourself.”

“That’s food squared away then. What else do you need?”

“I’d like at least four hours a day, in chunks—I can’t write for four hours straight. During those chunks, though, I can’t be interrupted. That sounds rude but…”

“It’s not. I get it. I can leave the room or leave the whole suite.” He took a chug of his beer. “What else?”

“That’s it, I think.”

“So are you ready to answer? Or do you need more time? I wouldn’t push, but this is my last stretch off until the bye week in February.”

“Yes,” she said, blurting the word and then inhaling and saying slower, “Yes, let’s do this.”

Mason swung through the back door of the bar where he was meeting Jesse and a couple of the others. When he spotted his friend, he pulled Jesse aside.

“She said yes,” Mason said.

Jesse one-arm embraced him, his beer held out of spilling range. “And you’re asking me to be your best man? Honored, buddy. Honored.”

Mason rolled his eyes. “Not that.”

“Ah, she said yes to your weird getaway idea. What did you call it? Reform school for assholes?” Jesse waved his beer. “You know, if you really wanted lessons in that, you could have asked me.”

Mason waved him off.

“But you didn’t,” Jesse said, “because I’m not the woman you’ve been crushing on since kindergarten. It’s almost as if this getaway isn’t so much about de-asshole-ifying Mason Moretti as giving him an excuse for three days alone with his crush, trapped and unable to escape.”

“Of course she can escape. If she wants to.”

“Which she won’t because you’re Mason Moretti.”

“Damn straight.”

Jesse shook his head. “Would you like an anti-asshole lesson right now?”

“Nope, I’d like a beer.”

Mason spotted a server with a tray of them and grabbed one. She looked over, scowling, and then saw who it was and smiled.

Jesse sighed. “At least no one can claim you don’t need the lessons.”

“What? She smiled at me. It’s fine.”

“Because you’re Mason Moretti.” Jesse sighed. “I like Gemma. I feel bad for Gemma. The woman has her work cut out for her.” He sobered and looked at Mason. “Please tell me the asshole reform school isn’t purely a ruse to make her go away with you, Mace.”

“Like I said, when I read her book, I saw myself and didn’t like it. I legitimately want to do better.”

“For her.”

“Nothing wrong with that, and sure, I want the getaway, too. Impress her, let her get to know me… maybe…” He shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Yeah, it’s the ‘whatever’ that I’m worried about. If this is a scheme to seduce her, she will see through that shit—”

“It’s not.”

Jesse shook his head. “Would you like me to tell you all the ways this could blow up in your face?”

Mason sipped his beer. “Not really.”

“All right then.” He clapped Mason on the back. “Have a good trip.”

“Thanks.”