Page 26 of Writing Mr. Wrong

MASON

T hey were about to take off when Mason got a text from his coach, wishing him a good trip, telling him he deserved the break and to get his ass back on game day. Mason smiled at that… and then he got the next text.

It was from Dr. Colbourne, the team shrink.

Dr. Colbourne: Mason, you’ve been dodging my requests for a session for the past month

Dr. Colbourne: You know I don’t like to push the matter

Dr. Colbourne: But we really need to talk. Call me

He turned off his phone. He’d worry about that later. For now, he was focused on giving Gemma the vacation of her dreams.

He was resisting the urge to ask her where they were going.

That would be his surprise. The vacation planner had teamed with a subcontractor they used to plan this sort of spontaneous trip, complete with prepacked luggage.

He’d sent them his clothing sizes and photos of Gemma, and they’d packed everything needed for the trip Gemma had chosen, including coolers of the ingredients he needed to cook.

They were on the plane now. Gemma was quiet.

Overwhelmed, he figured. He’d found the bag with her charger cords, to make sure they had the right ones.

When he returned, she was settled in, her laptop case on the seat beside her.

That was where he’d planned to sit but no worries. He’d just take the one across from her…

She had her feet on it, her laptop on her legs. Okay, well, she wanted to get some work done. That was fine. It was hard to talk on a plane anyway. He took a seat across the aisle from her.

A flight attendant from the terminal popped on then, explaining where they’d find drinks and snacks, as there wouldn’t be an attendant on the small plane. She offered champagne, and Mason was about to say no—it was barely eleven in the morning—but Gemma said, “Please,” and he seconded that.

The attendant filled two glasses and handed them out. As she deplaned, Mason leaned over the aisle, smiling, glass extended.

“To our little getaway,” he said.

Gemma didn’t even look his way. She just bottomed-up the glass, gulping half the contents. Then she set it in the holder for takeoff and returned to her work.

He blamed the engines for the fumbled toast. She hadn’t heard him. That was all.

He smiled, to no one in particular, sipped his champagne, and settled in.

GEMMA

Thank God for loud plane engines. The constant roar meant Mason didn’t seem to expect her to talk, and she was able to pretend she didn’t hear him when he tried. That—plus the champagne—was the only way she was getting through this flight.

The farther south the plane went, the more obvious it became that they weren’t going anyplace with snow. He’d assumed she wanted a beach vacation. Because that’s what every woman wants in winter, isn’t it? To lie on the beach, sip daiquiris, and work on her tan.

Just like every woman dreamed of exclusive restaurants and swooned over guys who sent them a handful of gift cards to “pamper” themselves.

Would Mason make the same mistake with male friends? Presume they all liked hockey, getting plastered on Saturday nights, and eating takeout because they couldn’t cook? Stereotypical “guy” stuff that Mason himself matched only on the first count.

When the pilot’s voice crackled on the speaker, telling them to prepare for landing, she looked down to see the distant blue of crystal clear water, the glowing white of sandy beaches, and the rich green of waving palms. She allowed herself one final exhale of disappointment before she shifted her expectations and declared that this was still better than Vancouver in November.

She’d survive. She’d write, and she’d walk in the sand and wade in the warm water, and she’d enjoy herself, damn it.

MASON

Huh. He’d figured Gemma would pick someplace more…

adventurous. Skiing in the Alps. A villa in rural Italy.

A penthouse in Paris. Not that there was anything wrong with beaches.

This was exactly the sort of place he came on his bye week, gathering a bunch of buddies and heading south in search of the sun.

A week of forbidden excess mid-season. Eat too much. Drink too much. Fool around too much. Then get your ass back to Vancouver a couple of days early to work it all off in the gym and spa.

This wasn’t about him, though. It was about Gemma, and if this was what she’d chosen, it just proved he needed to work harder on getting to know her.

When they’d gotten into the vehicle, the driver had assured them the windows were bulletproof, which Mason figured was a joke, but they’d been in the car nearly an hour and hadn’t caught more than glimpses of locals, as if they were on some extended route that actively avoided them.

Finally, they reached a huge gate attached to a huge fence… with armed guards.

“Why is there a fence?” Gemma asked, rolling down the divider.

“For your protection, miss,” the driver said.

“The entire resort is fenced?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And guarded?”

The man smiled back at her. “Yes, miss. You do not need to worry. This is safe. Very safe. Everything you need will be inside here. Your own little slice of paradise.”

The car rolled through the gates, which closed behind them with a clang.

This was…

Shit. Mason hated to judge, but this made him really uncomfortable.

“No,” Gemma said, her voice almost a growl. “I am not staying here.”

She turned to Mason. “I am not staying in a place where rich vacationers enjoy the best beaches behind an armed fence guarding them from the locals .”

“Agreed,” Mason said.

“You… agree?”

“This is definitely not my vibe. I’m guessing the planners didn’t run the venue past you.” He took out his phone. “Let me make a call and see what I can do.”

He was searching for the number when he noticed Gemma staring at him.

“I… didn’t pick this, Mason.”

“I know. That’s the problem. You told them what you wanted, and they were supposed to run all the specifics past you.”

“I didn’t choose a beach vacation.”

He caught her expression, and something in him chilled. “Where did you tell them you wanted to go?”

“Nowhere. They never got in touch with me.”

“What?”

Okay, that came out a little loud, given the way she jumped.

“So they never reached out?” he said. “Ever? They just…” He looked out again as his hands fisted. “Picked this. Themselves. Without consulting you. What the fuck?”

“You were away and busy, and I didn’t want to bother you. I figured they just didn’t need that much lead time.”

Away and busy.

He’d spent the last three days squashing the urge to text ten times a day, to call and chat for an hour… Hell, he’d even had to stifle the impulse to send last-minute plane tickets inviting her to join him.

Gemma had work to do, and he needed to stop being a selfish ass and give her space.

“So you didn’t pick this either?” she said.

“What? No.” He stared at her. “You thought I chose the destination?”

Shit. Of course she did. She figured he’d steamrolled over his promise, like he had before.

“I did not pick this,” he said firmly. “I didn’t know where we were headed. I was waiting for the surprise.”

“Apparently, we both were.” She tried for a smile, but it was strained. “Surprise!”

“I definitely told them to call you. I said you were in charge.” He fumbled with his phone. “I can show you—”

“That’s fine.”

“No,” he said, sharper than he intended. “Please. Just look.” He reached out his phone for her to see the texts and held his breath until she read them and nodded her understanding.

What an absolute fuckup.

But for once, it wasn’t his fuckup, which meant he got to redirect his panic into well-deserved fury aimed at the people responsible.

“I’ll handle this,” he said, reaching for the door handle.

“I’d like to get out of the car, too,” she said. “If it’s safe.”

“Perfectly safe,” he said, “as long as you’re not the person on the other end of my call.”

GEMMA

Gemma thought he was joking about the person at the other end of his call.

She should have known better. Mason could be chill and easygoing.

He could also wield his power like, well, like a mace.

One swing for a TKO. He’d made a professional career of being a very scary guy. It just wasn’t the whole of him.

Because Mason Moretti, as her mother said, was complicated. He wasn’t one thing or another. No one really was. But wasn’t that what she wanted in high school? Just the one side of him? As if the private parts she saw were real and the public parts—Mason Moretti, hockey star—were fake.

But it wasn’t fake, was it? Just other parts of the whole, and she’d known that and rejected it. Rejected part of him.

Like Alan, who’d seen things in Gemma he wanted—the intellectual Gemma, the articulate Gemma, the Gemma who “cleaned up well”—and tried to excise the rest. Was that what she’d wanted from Mason as a teen? To claim the parts she was comfortable with and shave off the parts she wasn’t?

Her gut wanted to reject the comparison. If they’d gotten together, she would never have tried to get him to give up hockey, to be someone different. But she would have chosen what parts of his life she wanted and stayed out of the rest, and that was nearly as bad, wasn’t it?

Also, a little voice whispered, it would have been a damn tragedy.

Because she did like the other parts of Mason.

She found his braggadocio charming. She admired his confidence.

She’d loved watching him on the ice, loved seeing his passion for the game and his fans’ passion for him.

And she liked this, too. Watching him wield his power on that phone call to get what she wanted, what she had been denied. That was…

Oh, fuck, it was sexy, wasn’t it?

Sure, Gemma felt a little sorry for whoever was on the other end of that line, but Mason’s anger wasn’t an out-of-control fire. It was a surgical laser, cold and precise. The firm really had screwed up, and he was only making that clear.

Also, it was a relief to know Mason hadn’t run roughshod over his promise to her. He might make mistakes—she was trying hard not to think about her lack of luggage—but the location issue was also her own fault for not checking in.

Clearing up the choice of locale might not be as easy.

Gemma looked around the resort and tried to focus on the sunshine, so bright she’d fished long-abandoned sunglasses from the bottom of her laptop bag. She’d enjoy three days of that, right?

“Gemma!” Mason bellowed.

She looked over to see him holding out the phone.

A woman walking past shot her a sympathetic look that might hold a touch of Cal’s “blink twice if you need help.” That confused Gemma for a moment.

Then she remembered that Mason wasn’t a hometown hero here.

He was just a big angry guy seeming to yell a summons to his poor little wife.

If Gemma had been with Alan, she’d have cringed under that woman’s look and felt obligated to smile back an everything’s fine . But with Mason, she didn’t need to defend either of them. Everything was fine.

“You’re on speaker,” he said as she walked over. “Tell Gemma how you guys screwed up.”

Gemma murmured that wasn’t necessary, but Mason shook his head. It was necessary to him.

The woman on the other end said something about miscommunication, not her assignment, didn’t know how it happened, could only presume the subcontractor looked at Mason’s file and thought they knew what he wanted, based on his past trips.

“Trips with friends ,” he said, as if this was also important. “But we don’t go to places like this.”

“Yes,” the woman said, “but this is a top-tier couples resort, known for—”

“Not the point,” Mason said. “You’ve confirmed that this was entirely your firm’s oversight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, Gemma, where would you like to go? Name the spot. Anywhere in the world.”

The woman tentatively cleared her throat. “That is, of course, your choice, sir, but your luggage has been tailored to this climate, and you do only have three days.”

“Don’t care. Gemma gets what she wants. That was the deal.”

“I’m fine with a beach vacation,” she said. “I would like to maximize our time.”

Mason gave a low growl, as if she were settling, which she was, but that was also her choice, and at a hard look from her, he went quiet and nodded.

“Not here, though,” she said. “If at all possible.”

“Definitely possible,” Mason said, in a tone that defied the planner to disagree. “Tell her what you want, and you’ll have it, because I’m an important client who not only gives them lots of business but sends lots of business their way.”

“Y-yes,” the woman said. “We want to make this right, Ms. Stanton, and if you’re fine with staying in the general area, we will accommodate any other needs. It is the off-season, which helps.”

“What do you want?” Mason asked, his voice low, intended just for Gemma. “Name it.”

She thought of her ski-vacation idea and amended the basics to match. “A private villa, if at all possible. Two bedrooms. A living space. A kitchen.”

“Full kitchen,” Mason said. “Not a microwave and bar fridge.”

“We can certainly get you that,” the woman said. “What else?”

“The living room needs a recliner or sofa so I can write. A desk is helpful, but not essential.” She looked around. “Outdoor seating would be a huge plus. Patio, balcony, anyplace where we can sit and enjoy the weather.”

“And a beach, I presume?”

“I don’t need beachfront. But a nearby waterfront would be great. Someplace to swim.”

The woman’s fingers tapped over a keyboard. “Would isolation bother either of you? A private villa that isn’t close to restaurants and such? I see here that you planned to make your own meals.”

“Isolation is fine,” Gemma said when Mason’s glance lobbed this question her way. “Oh, and if the villa was owned by locals, that would be a big bonus.”

“Understood. I have a few options, but I might not be able to secure one in time to get your approval before you fly out. Is that acceptable? Taking all this into consideration, may I choose a place while you’re en route?”

“That’s fine,” Gemma said. “Thank you.”