Page 28 of Writing Mr. Wrong

GEMMA

G emma was dreaming about Mason, damn it.

She’d had many such dreams in the past week.

Some took place in that cove along the coast. Some were on his motorcycle.

Some were in his condo, starting with that bathroom door opening.

One had even been at the hockey game, in a conveniently located closet, before he’d even taken off his uniform.

Such were the perils of being a romance writer. Her imagination got creative. Very creative.

The latest variation involved that circular sofa outside, and Mason in wet swim trunks that left nothing to the imagination.

Water glistened down his chest and legs as he crossed the sand to where she lounged.

Then he crawled atop her, grinning down, dripping warm water as his lips came toward hers—

A noise had her half rousing from sleep, and while her brain wanted to seize on that and pull herself out, like a swimmer thrown a life buoy, the rest of her said the water was just fine and lulled her back under.

Fantasy Mason’s hands slid up her bare sides and toyed with the straps of her bikini top, teasing her, the smell of him enough to drive her mad, and she arched up into him as he chuckled and whispered—

“Gem? You awake?”

She jumped, clutching the covers to her chest like a shy maiden. That’s when she noticed light streaming through the window.

A tap at her door.

“Gem?” Mason whispered.

“Hmm?” she managed.

“I’m going to take a shower. I wanted to make sure you didn’t need the bathroom first.”

“I’m good.” The words came as a squeak.

“Give me fifteen minutes, and then I’ll start breakfast.”

“Okay.” Definitely a squeak.

As he padded away, Gemma exhaled and flopped onto the pillow.

Her body still burned with that dream, as her brain whispered she should return to it…

and do whatever was necessary to alleviate that particular ache.

After all, Mason was in the shower for the next fifteen minutes.

No chance he’d knock on the door or hear a stray gasp—

The water started up. Right beside her wall.

Mason was having a shower on the other side of her bedroom wall. Mason, presumably naked, because that’s how people showered. Mason, lathering up and—

Fuck!

Oh, one bathroom is fine. It has a lock. It’s not as if I’ll need to listen to him shower, which leads to picturing him showering literally two feet away.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. Just ignore—

A soft groan from the other side of the wall. No, not that kind of groan, just the sound you make stretching out stiff muscles. Which Mason would have. Lots of muscles. Very stiff—

Stop.

Then it did stop. The water, that is. She frowned. He’d only had time to get wet and—

The sound of lathering. How the hell did you hear the sound of lathering?

Well, she did. The swish of soapy hands over skin.

The soft groan of pleasure as he stretched those stiff muscles.

The slap of the washcloth, sending a tingle through her, tongue darting between her teeth as she imagined that wet washcloth slapping—

Jesus. How did a guy make showering sound dirty?

No, that was her. Mason was just innocently bathing, and she was perving on him from the next room. She didn’t even need to see him to make her breath come faster. Didn’t need to see him in that huge shower, big enough for two, Mason Moretti, naked and—

Gemma sat up.

She swung her legs out of bed and caught a glimpse of herself, her color high, her pupils huge, the look of a sex-starved woman with a smoking hot guy showering on the other side of the wall.

She rubbed her face and checked again. Nope, she still looked like she’d been caught watching porn.

Time to, uh, empty her luggage. That was it. She’d unpack and dress and take her time getting ready. Oh, look, her room had a balcony. She opened the door and let the cool morning breeze waft in. There, that would help.

You know what would help a lot more?

Not an option. At least, not while Mason was on the other side of that very thin wall.

Unpack her clothes, cool down, and get ready for a day of writing.

By the time Gemma left her room, Mason was in the kitchen. She considered having a shower herself, but getting naked under steaming water would only revive the problem.

Coffee now, shower later.

She walked into the kitchen and stopped. Holy shit, was he trying to kill her?

Mason worked at the counter with his back to her… while wearing only swimming trunks. His bare torso still glowed from his shower. Damp hair. A sliver of beard shadow visible when he turned to reach for the bag of coffee beans.

Something sizzled on the stove, but she made her way straight for Mason. Because he was in front of the coffee maker, that’s all.

He turned to her. “Figured I’d go for a swim after breakfast, so I just pulled on my trunks. That’s okay?”

Okay… She rolled the word around as she looked at him, wearing only swim trunks, completely naked except for those trunks, which were not exactly baggy, and showed off just enough definition to—

She jerked her gaze up so fast she risked whiplash.

“Is it okay?” he asked again.

She only nodded, mutely.

“Coffee coming up,” he said. “As soon as I figure out how to use this thing. Mine at home is a single cup.”

“A Keurig?”

He shook his head. “The kind you pour beans into and it dispenses a single cup.”

“At the touch of a button? I’ve seen those, and it’s now official. I hate you.”

He lifted a finger. “Envy, Stanton. You gotta get the words right, now that you’re a writer and all.”

“Yeah, yeah, let me handle this.”

She walked up beside him and hip checked him out of the way, realizing too late how overly familiar that was. Damn dreams. He only chuckled, though, and hip checked her back, lingering just long enough for her to catch that smell of cloves and orange before he moved away.

“I officially put you in charge of all beverages.” He handed her the coffee bag. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Very soundly,” she said, firmer than necessary. Then she stopped. “I don’t remember going to bed. And I woke in my clothing.”

“You fell asleep outside. I carried you in.” He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “You are very easy to get in bed, Stanton.”

She hit Eject on that image fast and measured coffee into the machine. “So what’s for breakfast?”

She tried to lean past him to see the stove, but he moved in front of it.

“You’ll find out. Settle in with your coffee and relax. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes, but if you’re hungry, I cut up fruit. Breakfast appetizers.”

She noticed the plate and reached for a piece of pineapple. “You are a god.”

Godsend. She’d meant to say “godsend.” Damn it.

Mason only grinned. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Now take the plate to the table, and I’ll pour the coffee when it’s ready. That much I can do.”

Breakfast had been amazing. He’d made two kinds of blintzes—one mushroom, the other cheese filling with berry sauce served alongside turkey sausage hash and fruit. She’d eaten far too much, and she didn’t care.

Mason had insisted he wasn’t a great cook. From anyone else, that would now seem like false modesty. But Mason Moretti didn’t know the meaning of the words, and when she’d gushed, he’d looked at her sidelong, as if she might be mocking him. That wasn’t the Mason she knew.

Or was it?

Because she had seen that Mason before, in the kid who’d hesitated to write his newspaper articles, who’d ducked her praise and mumbled about them being “okay” and “nothing like yours.”

Of course he hadn’t produced Pulitzer prose, but it had been good. And breakfast wasn’t gourmet, but it’d been good.

That wasn’t enough for Mason, was it?

What had he told her once, about writing and school in general?

My dad says to stick with what I’m really good at.

His father. The original asshole. No, the real asshole.

Gemma’s parents had been endlessly encouraging with zero expectations. Explore life. Have fun. Learn new things. What would it be like to have the opposite—all expectations and no encouragement to move beyond them?

She’d have to remember that about Mason. For now, she was enjoying a damn near perfect morning, starting with an incredible breakfast and then quiet hours to write while he swam.

When she reached the end of her time, she closed the laptop to see a sight that made up for a less than stellar writing session. Mason Moretti, in wet swim trunks, heading straight for her.

It was like he’d reached into her sexy dream from last night. Except better, because last night, she’d only guessed how he’d look and now she saw the reality, which was…

He really was trying to kill her, wasn’t he? Death by unrequited lust. Worse, he wasn’t even trying to be sexy. He was just walking… while almost naked, muscles glistening wet in the sunshine, water dripped from his hair, those soaked trunks leaving little to the imagination.

I’m a big guy. Everything’s gotta be proportional.

Dear God, he really was trying to kill her. Even when she dragged her gaze from his trunks, she only found herself caught in the tractor beam of his smile.

He walked straight to her, put one knee on the circular chair, and leaned over, dripping wet, exactly like in her dream.

“Ready for a lesson?” he said.

“Y-yes?”

“Sex,” he said.

She blinked. “Wh-what?”

“I want to talk about sex. Is that okay?”

Damn it, she’d fallen asleep, hadn’t she? Drifted off on the chair and tumbled back into her dream

“For our asshole lesson,” he said. “That’s where I want to start.”

“With… sex?”

A grin. “Is that a problem?” He shook his wet hair, warm water spraying. “I’m kidding. Well, kinda. After what happened last week, at the restaurant, I’d like to talk about how I’m being an asshole with women. How I can be better.”

“With sex?” she said again, relaxed into a teasing tone.

“Nah.” A wicked grin. “I’ve got that part down pat.”

He lightly smacked her bare calf. “Come on, teacher. Class is officially in session.”