Page 4 of Writing Mr. Wrong

GEMMA

G emma stared at the blinking cursor and wasn’t sure whether she wanted to weep in frustration or pummel the laptop into submission.

More like pummel her muse into submission.

She’d blown her deadline, something she’d never even done with a school essay. She couldn’t blame work, because she was on a term-long leave to write her second book, even though the advance didn’t come close to covering her salary.

When she’d warned her editor about the delay, she’d blamed her endless and excruciating divorce. She hadn’t expected it to be so bad, which was laughable. Alan wasn’t an asshole—he was an absolute bastard. Had she really thought he’d let her off easy?

It should have been easy. After all, he was the one who walked away. She hadn’t even asked for alimony, despite having earned it, having given up her dreams of a doctorate to get him through business school.

As soon as I’m done, it’s your turn, babe.

It’d never been her turn. There’d always been something more important, even though he’d made it clear she wasn’t measuring up as a corporate wife. Not pretty enough. Not charming enough. Definitely not polished enough.

So he found someone who better suited his needs. His goddamned PA, which would be hilarious in its utter mundanity if the woman hadn’t been everything Alan wanted Gemma to be—charming and polished and gorgeous. Also ten years younger.

It couldn’t get more humiliating than that, right? Of course it could. At the very first divorce meeting, he’d shown up with his girlfriend and their eleven-month-old son… after walking out on Gemma sixteen months earlier.

Gemma might not have been a math major, but she could do simple addition and subtraction.

The worst part wasn’t even that he’d cheated on her.

It was throwing that baby in her face. She’d had three miscarriages during their marriage.

Three babies she’d desperately wanted, and when she broached the subject of adoption, Alan had refused.

He wanted his own child. It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t carry to term.

Couldn’t even do that right, could you, Gem?

Yes, Alan was a bastard, and the divorce had been hell, which was a fine excuse for blowing her deadline. It was also a lie.

Why wasn’t the book done? Because Gemma hated her characters.

She hadn’t minded Edin and Tavish from A Highland Fling .

She hadn’t loved them the way she’d loved the ones in her unpublished romance.

She’d dreamed of those characters. Highland had been more work, but she’d finished it.

This one, though? The woman was a doormat, and the guy was an even bigger dick than Laird Tavish Argyle.

If you hate them, how do you expect readers to like them?

She pushed aside the voice, which sounded suspiciously like her sister-in-law Daphne’s. She just had to get this one done, and then, if Highland sold decently, she could suggest a change of direction for a new contract, with characters more to her—

Someone rapped on her door, a friendly staccato knock.

Gemma frowned as she peered toward the front hall.

The building might be crap, but it had controlled entry, so it couldn’t be a visitor.

She didn’t know her neighbors yet, even though it’d been a year and she had no excuse.

She always used to know her neighbors. Just like she always used to have a wide circle of friends. Then she met Alan.

Another rap, with slightly more force.

Maybe it was a service call, and she’d missed the notice. God knows, her place needed repairs. Vancouver was the most expensive city in Canada and—

The third knock fairly rang with impatience.

“Get your head out of the clouds,” Alan would snap. “You’re always daydreaming.”

It’s called escape, my dear. Mental escape from life with you.

Before she could think to check the peephole, Gemma yanked open the door and—

“Mason?”

Mason Moretti stood on her doorstep, complete with his ridiculous grin and two steaming cups of coffee.

“I brought the java to you,” he said, with a little bow.

“How’d you get past the front door?”

His brows shot up. “Really? That’s your question?”

“Oh, I have more.”

“I tried calling,” he said as he shifted his hip against the door frame. Like earlier, he was in a T-shirt. Did the man not own a jacket? Or sleeves? It was November. Except… let’s be honest. If you have biceps like Mason Moretti, wearing short sleeves could be considered a public service.

Damn it. He hadn’t had those arms in high school. He’d been fit, of course, but now he was just…

Fine. So fine. Hot as hell, with the kind of body that made her remember how long it’d been since she had sex. And how long it’d been since she had good sex.

In that regard, Mason Moretti would probably be horrible. Even more selfish than Alan.

But the Mason she remembered had been surprisingly considerate when it was just the two of them. And that kiss… definitely not selfish.

Sex with Mason Moretti would be—

What the hell? Stop. Reverse.

What had he been saying? She had no fucking idea, because Mason was standing outside her apartment, looking steamier than that coffee.

“You weren’t answering,” he said when she didn’t respond.

Right. He said he’d called. She’d ignored three calls from a number she didn’t recognize.

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you get my number? And my home address?”

“May I come in?” he asked. “I brought coffee.”

His dark brown eyes twinkled. He held out one of the cups, and she hesitated, but ignoring it felt petty, so she took it with a grudging grunt of thanks.

“And I have come with something else as well.” He put on a terrible Italian American accent. “An offer you can’t refuse.”

She met his eyes. “Wanna bet?”

He laughed. It was his real laugh, but deeper and sexier than she remembered.

Because of course it was. He was sexier than she remembered.

But not deeper. Mason Moretti was all surface and always had been, and just when you thought you were getting a rare peek at the guy behind the hockey mask, you realized you were gazing into a shallow pool, at a reflection of what you wanted to see.

Even as Gemma thought that, part of her squirmed, as if she was being unfair.

Too bad. She wanted to be unfair. Whatever it took to get this ridiculously sexy—and completely unsuitable—guy off her doorstep.

“Whatever the offer is, Mason, the answer is no. If you need to speak to me again, I have voicemail.”

“So you’d rather I called?”

“Yes.”

He took out his phone and hit a button. A moment later, hers vibrated on the hall table. When she glared at him, he only pointed toward her phone. She picked it up and pressed Decline.

“Fine,” she said. “Spit it out.”

He leaned against the doorway again, making his muscles flex. That was no accident. He knew exactly what he was doing. Damn him. And damn her, because it worked, her gaze following that flex before she remembered to look away.

“I feel bad about Ashley’s stunt this morning,” he said. “It was shitty, and I wanted to set things straight. I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret, that I was the model for your hero.”

Gemma sighed. “About that… Just to be clear, I didn’t purposely base the guy on you. Writers have lots of sources of inspiration, and you must have been one. Unintentionally.”

He grinned. “It wouldn’t be the first time I was the basis for a”—he winked—“bit of fantasy sports casting.”

“No.” Were her cheeks heating? Shit. “That’s not—”

“I’m teasing. I know that’s not you, Gem.” He leaned forward, going serious. “But I am flattered, and I want to help.”

“Help…?”

“Sell your book. Like I said, I feel bad for letting Ashley pull me into that bullshit, and I am going to make it up to you. By promoting your book.”

“Nope.” She stepped back, hand gripping the door. “Nope, nope, nope—”

He waggled his phone. “We’re already trending on social media.”

Gemma froze. “What?”

“We’re trending. You and me. People loved our interview.”

She stiffened. “You mean they thought it was hilarious. The romance author who based her character on an actual sports star.”

“What? No. They like it. They think it’s cute.”

Huh. Well, that would explain the other calls she’d been dodging—the ones from her publicist. She’d been terrified to answer, certain it was some release-day disaster, like your entire first printing was destroyed in a warehouse fire and we aren’t going to run off any more .

Mason continued, “They want it to be real.”

“Want what to be real?”

“Us. Like how cool it’d be if we really did start dating.” His eyes glittered, as if she’d called his bluff and he’d slapped down a royal flush. “So how about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“You and me. A nice restaurant. A tip-off to the media…”

“You want us to… fake date?”

“I don’t expect you to lie or anything. We’d just be seen together. Let people draw their own conclusions.”

For three endless seconds, Gemma felt the pull of that possibility, like a tide slipping around her ankles.

The water’s fine. Come on in.

Except it wasn’t fine. She’d learned her lesson there. Mason’s gentle persuasion and sweet smiles masked a riptide that would drag her under and leave her sputtering and gasping… and not in a good way.

“What’s in it for you?” she asked.

His eyes widened, and maybe he was trying for innocence, but he looked like a five-year-old gulping down pilfered cookies.

“Me?” he said. “Nothing. What happened to you today was shitty, and I just want to help.”

“Uh-huh.” Don’t say it. Just don’t— “You want to fix what happened to me today . Only today.”

“Sure. Like I said, it was shitty.”

“What about what happened before we graduated high school, Mason. What you did then .”

A slow flush crawled under his five-o’clock shadow. So he hadn’t forgotten. He just hoped she had.

“Yeah.” He leaned harder into the door frame. “About that…” He cleared his throat. “You got over it, right? You based a character—”

“No, Mason. I did not ‘get over it.’ Back then, you didn’t seem to understand what you’d done wrong. Dare I hope you get it now?”

“Uh…”

“You kissed me. You initiated it. Right?”

He ducked his head, looking sheepish, and maybe that was supposed to make her feel bad for him, but it threw a match on very old and dry tinder.

She continued, “But when someone snapped a photo, you let your friends tell everyone you kissed me on a dare.”

“I didn’t let them, Gem. I told you that I denied it.”

“To who?”

“Uh…” He looked confused.

“To your friends. You told your friends it wasn’t a dare. And what about everyone else? Everyone your friends told? At what point did you publicly come out and say they’d gotten the story wrong? At what point did you stop them from continuing to spread the lie?”

“I…”

“You didn’t. Your buddies decided to save your reputation and make sure no one thought you’d actually—willingly—made out with Gemma Stanton. And you let them.”

She waited, just in case he had an excuse. He didn’t. She knew that.

“You let me be humiliated, Mason,” she said. “You made out with me and then said you’d see me the next day, and when the shit hit the fan, all I got was a sixty-second conversation in which you made sure I knew it wasn’t a dare. Otherwise, you never said another word to me. Ever.”

He straightened again. “I made a mistake, and I want to make up for it.”

“After nearly twenty—” She bit that off, shook her head, and smoothed her tone. “I’m not going to slam this door in your face. I’m just going to close it. Then you are going to go away and lose my number.”

She backed inside. He made no move to stop her. Just stood there as she shut the door. Then she leaned against it, feeling the old shame and humiliation surge before giving herself a shake and trudging back to stare at her blank screen.