Page 25 of Writing Mr. Wrong

GEMMA

G emma had spent the last three days in a strange state between “hockey with Mason” and “trip with Mason.” The most significant part of that was the lack of, well, Mason.

He wasn’t showing up on her doorstep, wasn’t texting in the middle of the night, wasn’t pestering her for coffee or fake dates.

Instead of enjoying the reprieve, she felt this strange sense that she was marking time, waiting.

Mason did text her a few times a day, just checking in. He was obviously busy. Which was fine. Just… disappointing.

Ava had also been delighted to share Gemma’s sales figures. They were “better than expected,” which would mean more if their expectations had been higher.

Now she just had to finish her second book.

Gemma swung to happier thoughts. Mason would be back tomorrow, and they’d leave for their getaway.

She’d decided on a ski chalet. While she wasn’t sure she’d do any actual skiing, November in Vancouver always made her long for real winter, the way other Canadians might long for summer.

She wanted a cozy cabin with a roaring fire and snow.

When her phone rang, she hoped it was finally the vacation planner—she still hadn’t heard from them. She rolled over in bed, saw that it was a video call, and grinned. That was even better. She hit the Accept button and…

The face filling her screen was handsome. Very handsome, she’d always had to give him that much. A chiseled jaw, perfectly shaven, light brown hair styled just so. While she couldn’t see the rest of him, she knew it from memory. Average height. Expensive suit on a trim body.

“Gemma,” Alan said.

She resisted the urge to run a hand through her hair and maybe hit a blurring filter. Then she realized she hadn’t considered either when she presumed it was Mason. That was significant.

“Alan,” she said. “To what do I owe—”

“What is this?” He waved a paper, which was presumably the reason for being on video.

“You’ll need to stop waving it so I can see it,” she said.

“It’s a cease and desist.”

Her sleepy brain still struggled to focus. Those words sounded vaguely familiar, but where…

“From Mason Moretti,” he said, shoving the page into the camera. “He’s ordering me to stop being his fan.”

Gemma burst out laughing.

Alan glared. “Did you send this?”

“Uh, no. That’s all Mason. I told him you were a big fan, and he joked about ordering you to stop. Also, you are never getting an autograph. Just so you know.”

“I suppose you think this is funny.”

“Ignore it,” she said. “Obviously, it’s not legally binding. Now I’m going to hang up—”

“What did you do to your hair?”

Gemma tensed. Alan had always considered her hair her worst feature.

In the early years, she’d had it blown out at his insistence.

Eventually, she said, “Screw that,” and wore it natural, curly and shoulder length.

Whenever they’d had a social engagement, he’d tell her to “do something with that” as if she was leaving the house with a small animal on her head.

This was how he’d take his revenge for the letter. Insult her hair. Oh, how far the mighty had fallen, reduced to snide comments about grooming.

“It looks different,” he said. “It looks good . You’ve done something.” There was a weird accusation in those words, as if after all those years of him wanting her to “fix” her hair, she’d finally done it after their divorce, just to spite him.

Gemma shook her head, making her curls bounce. “Nope. This is my just-woke-up look, Alan. Always has been.”

“It looks good.” A grudging note edged with anger, and then she got it. This had nothing to do with her hair and everything to do with Mason Moretti wanting his ex and Alan trying to figure out why.

“Goodbye, Alan. I’m going back to sleep now.”

“It’s eight a.m.” His gaze shot to the side, as if he could see beyond her screen, and his voice dropped. “Is he there?”

She paused before realizing he was asking whether Mason was in bed with her, and that’s why she was lingering past seven.

Oh, that was tempting. So damn tempting. Inch from the middle of the bed, angle the camera away, and say innocently, What? No , in a way that told him Mason absolutely was there.

“No, Alan, Mason had an away game last night, remember? I’m sure you saw it. Now—”

“I saw you at the last home game. The camera zoomed in. You never wanted to watch hockey, and now, all of a sudden, there you are, in the VIP section. With Mace showing off right in front of you.”

“Goodbye, Alan.”

“Wait. I…” His blue eyes met hers. “I’m worried about you, Gem. I know the divorce was rough, and you’re probably lonely, but when it comes to women, they call him One-Swing Mace. He hits that once and moves on.”

She remembered the Camille incident. “I am aware.”

“I’m sure they all imagined themselves becoming Mrs. Moretti, but it’s not going to happen.”

“What? He isn’t going to marry me? But he promised!” She rolled her eyes. “If you really think I’m hanging out with Mason Moretti in hopes of snagging myself a hot hockey player husband, you really don’t know me at all.”

“Hot? He’s not even good-looking, Gemma.”

She bit her cheek at the earnest look on Alan’s face, as if his poor ex was in need of glasses. “Hot isn’t the same as good-looking, Alan, and trust me, Mason Moretti is hot . You can run a poll on that, and I have no doubt of the answer. He’s smoking.”

Alan’s face reddened, and his mouth worked before he settled for “I just don’t want you getting hurt, Gem. I don’t want you expecting more than he’s offering.”

“Do you know what Mason’s offering? Fun. And he delivers in spades.” Which was true, and if Alan took that in another way, so be it. “Now, I really—”

Her phone audibly buzzed. Seeing the caller name, she grinned before she could stop herself.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Alan said, his eyes narrowing.

“Gotta run. Bye.”

She flipped over to Mason before realizing it was still on video. “Hold on. I had another call. Let me shut the camera off.”

His video popped on before she could. His face filled her phone screen, complete with unruly hair, unshaven face, dancing brown eyes, and a grin that made her insides flip.

“Good morning,” he said. Then the smile faltered. “Shit, did I wake you up? No, wait. You were on a call. Someone else woke you up. Whew. I’m not the asshole.”

She smiled. “Yep, you’re not the asshole. Are you flying back today?”

“I am back. Surprise!” That grin again, the one that was half-genuine, half-far-too-pleased with himself, and all charming. Also hot. Damn it! Stop that.

“Is it too early to ask you out for coffee?” he said. “We need to discuss trip stuff, but I wasn’t sure when you woke up.”

She yawned. “Usually before this, but I was up late writing. Coffee would be wonderful. You want to come by?”

“Can we meet near your place? I know a spot. Good breakfast and really quiet at this hour. Bring your laptop, and you can stick around and write after.”

She stifled another yawn. “I’ll probably write later.”

“Well, bring your laptop anyway. Just in case.”

She resisted the urge to say she could decide if and when she wrote, but she knew this wasn’t a control move. He was trying to be considerate, and sometimes he stumbled.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll bring my laptop.”

“Meet in an hour? I’ll send you the address.”

“I’ll be there.”

Gemma was out her door forty-five minutes later. She checked the address on her GPS. She thought she knew all the local cafés, but she wasn’t familiar with this one. It was within easy walking distance, though, which was a bonus.

Or it would be within easy walking distance, if she wasn’t wearing the boots she’d bought for the morning-show interview, along with the cashmere sweater and her favorite jeans, which she’d deemed too snug for TV.

Not too snug for breakfast with Mason, apparently.

She wasn’t going to overthink it. Not today.

She’d barely reached the corner before a car pulled up at the curb. As the driver’s window went down, Gemma realized it was the same guy who picked her up for her date with Mason.

“Ms. Stanton?” he asked. “Mr. Moretti asked me to give you a ride.”

She opened her mouth to say she was fine, and then said, “Screw it.” These boots weren’t made for walking.

“Thank you,” she said as he hopped out and opened the door.

As she climbed in, she asked the driver how he was doing, and they chatted briefly about last night’s game.

Then, as she settled in, she saw the two coffees and a box of pastries in the back seat and realized why she’d never noticed a café at the address Mason had given.

Because there wasn’t one. Meeting for breakfast had just been an excuse to get her out of the apartment, where she could be scooped up and whisked off to some new surprise.

She relaxed in the leather seats. “Are we picking Mason up?”

“Nope, meeting him there. The snacks are all yours.”

She read the cups. “Do you prefer cappuccino or hot chocolate?”

He smiled at her through the mirror. “Cappuccino.”

She handed it to him along with the open box for him to select a pastry.

As she sipped her hot chocolate, she smiled.

She’d told Alan that Mason was fun. That’d been a bit of irresistible needling but it was true, too.

Even when a date with Mason went horribly awry, it was still interesting, still memorable, still—dare she say it?

—fun. The impromptu motorcycle trip. The VIP hockey seats.

She needed a lot more of that in her life.

She took the quiet time to answer a few emails while resisting the urge to peer out the tinted windows and guess where they were headed. When the car finally slowed, it was to pull into a small regional airport. Huh.

As they drove in, Mason appeared from the shadows, sporting a cat-with-canary grin.

The man was far too pleased with himself.

Luckily, she was far too chill today to call him out on it.

It was, she hated to admit it, part of his charm.

Not the showing off, per se, but the childlike delight he took in it.

He was opening her door before she could.

“Hey,” she said. “This does not look like a coffee shop.” She smiled as she spoke so he wouldn’t think she was annoyed by the change in plans.

“There is coffee inside.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. Did you bring your…? Oh, good. I’ll take that.”

“No one touches my laptop, Moretti,” she said, clutching the bag with a mock glare as she got out of the car. “You can carry the pastries, though. You can even have one.”

A light flashed, and she looked over just as someone ducked out of sight.

“There’s no official media,” Mason said, lowering his voice, “but Terrance made sure word got out.”

“Oh, uh, okay. So, are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

He spread his arms. “Welcome to your secret getaway.”

“My what?”

“Our getaway.” He grinned that too-pleased grin. “I know we were supposed to leave tomorrow, but I wanted to get in as much time as possible. So I caught the red-eye back after the game.”

“I… what? Wait. We’re leaving… now?”

He waved toward a private charter on the airfield. “As soon as we’re on the plane.”

“I didn’t pack anything, Mason. All I have is my laptop.”

“Which is why I made sure you brought it. Everything else?” He grinned. “Supplied.”

“I don’t even have a power cord.”

“It’s all packed and ready to go.”

“But… what… what happened to me choosing the destination?”

His smile faltered. “Hmm?”

Someone from the hangar peeked out, camera in hand.

Gemma ducked back into the car, as if she’d forgotten something.

Her heart hammered, and she knew she should be furious, but all she could feel was roiling anxiety.

She hadn’t packed. She didn’t have her things.

He couldn’t just expect her to up and leave.

And yet he did, and instead of being furious, she was just disappointed. In him, yes, but mostly in herself.

She knew he was careless. He kept proving it over and over. He hadn’t paused to think whether she might need medication, whether she might have plans for today, whether she might just damn well want to wear her own clothing.

She could have gotten past that. Gently explained why this wasn’t the grand gesture he thought it was. That was the point of this trip, right? Showing him what he did that was problematic.

What really hurt was the lie. He’d been exceptionally clear that she would choose their destination… and then proceeded to plan it all himself.

Surprise!

She felt so damn defeated. But he’d promised her this writing getaway, damn it, and she wasn’t losing it because Mason was being Mason.

“Gemma?” he said, sounding concerned.

“All good,” she said as she backed out of the car, hoisting her almost-empty cup. “Wouldn’t want to forget this.”

She hefted her laptop bag and smiled for any cameras and let Mason lead her to the plane.