Page 7 of Writing Mr. Wrong
GEMMA
O ne date.
That was Mason’s offer.
One blowout date with all the frills. And not a date in the sense that he’d put his arm around her or fake a kiss for the cameras, because there would be cameras, that being the point of the exercise.
This would be a celebration of her book release.
Two old classmates reconnecting, one treating the other to a proper celebration.
If people took it as proof of a romance, that was on them.
“One perfect night out,” he said. “No expense spared. This is all about you and your book.”
“Okay…” She eyed him, waiting for the punch line.
He leaned in, and she caught the faint smell of orange and cloves.
He was perched on her armchair while she sat on the love seat.
He seemed to dwarf the chair. He wasn’t a massive guy.
A bit taller than average. A bit—okay, a lot —better built than average, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and muscular thighs.
Thighs? Really.
Gemma had a thing for thighs. Also hands.
While she wasn’t into big guys—the logistics were tricky for a small woman, no matter what romance novels would have you believe—she was inordinately fond of big hands, which unfortunately were usually attached to big guys.
Mason had the right kind of hands, big and rough and square.
Strong hands that could lift her against a wall and…
Stop.
Was it a coincidence that Mason had exactly the kind of hands she liked? Or did she like that kind of hands because he had them?
Shit. Mason was talking. Better pay attention. To his words. Not his thighs or his hands.
“You know Maize?” he said. “The restaurant?”
“Sure. Never been there, obviously. What’s the wait list up to? A year?”
He smiled. “I can get us in.”
“Let me guess. Because you’re Mason Moretti.”
That grin grew.
She shook her head. “I don’t need a fancy—”
“Too bad. That’s what’s on the table. Dinner for two at Maize.”
Didn’t he just say this was about her? Whatever she wanted?
“I’m pulling out all the stops,” he said. “Dinner at the best place in town. Drinks and dancing afterward.”
She opened her mouth to say she wasn’t all that keen on dancing. But he was still talking.
“We’ll go to Borealis,” he said. “No line for us.”
Gemma tried not to wince. Borealis was exactly the kind of see-and-be-seen club she hated.
What would be her idea of a perfect night? Maybe taking out her family’s boat with dinner from Mason’s restaurant. She loved Nonna Jean’s, though she only ever did delivery and only using her married name, even as she’d rolled her eyes at the precautions.
You think Mason’s going to remember you?
Yet the point of this date was to get publicity for her, which they couldn’t do on a private tête-à-tête. A fake one required real onlookers, which meant, yes, the hottest restaurant and club in town.
Wait. Was she actually considering saying yes?
A posh dinner would be nice. What was it like to go to the hottest restaurant and hottest club? Places Gemma would never see on her own.
“Okay,” she said finally, pushing the word out before she lost her nerve.
He grinned. “Excellent. You won’t regret this. It’ll be perfect . I know what I’m doing.”
“Because you’re Mason Moretti.”
His grin widened. “I am.”
MASON
Mason was pleased with himself. Very pleased. Okay, he could hear Jesse saying that being pleased with himself was hardly a new experience for Mason, and yeah, maybe he was being a little smug about the whole thing, but he knew his strengths, and planning dates was one of them.
The trick to a successful date? Have a lot of fucking money.
Fine, that wasn’t a trick so much as an inside advantage. Some might call it an unfair advantage, but Mason had earned every penny.
Mason hadn’t dated in high school. He’d been too busy with hockey, and his sports psychologist had warned against him getting too involved with a girl. Which did not mean he’d graduated a virgin, just that all his experience came from hookups that had never required actual dating.
After he got drafted into the Growlers, he’d dived eagerly into the experience of dating. He’d take women to the movies. To a quiet dinner. Out for a picnic. Rent a canoe and paddle down the river. Stuff that seemed romantic to him. The women had disagreed. Strongly disagreed.
That’s when Mason discovered the secret ingredient to a perfect date. Money.
Dial it up to eleven and treat them like a princess. Take them to the best restaurants and clubs. Send them a whole whack of gift cards. Dress shop. Lingerie shop. Salon. Spa. Give them an experience.
He pulled up his contact list and started a text to his date-planning service. Because of course he used a service. That was just efficient.
Mason: I need the standard package for a lady friend
Mason: Skip dinner reservations. I’ve got it covered. Maize at eight
Mason: Oh, and skip the lingerie gift card too
He stared at that last one, his finger over the Send button. Maybe…? Just as a little something extra. A thoughtful gift. Not that he was expecting to see whatever she bought with it.
No, Gemma would think it meant he expected to see it, and there would be no date. Possibly also a string of furious profanity and a warning of what she’d do if he ever contacted her again.
He edited that last line, just to make it clearer.
Mason: NO lingerie gift card
He popped off Gemma’s contact info and eased back in his chair with a smile.
There. A job well done.
GEMMA
Gemma sat staring down at the fistful of gift cards fanned out like a poker hand. A card for a dress shop and four from the same spa complex, for hair, a facial, a manicure, and… a massage?
Okay, the massage was tempting. She might keep that one. But otherwise?
What the hell was this? Did Mason expect her prom-ready for their date?
There would be cameras. She should spend a little extra time on her appearance.
And she would, but she could do it without all this. She’d been to the salon and gotten a manicure just last week in preparation for the morning-show interview.
Did Mason presume she wouldn’t have a dress worthy of Maize? It was dinner, not the Oscars. She turned the card over to see the amount. Holy shit, she’d barely spent that on her off-the-rack wedding gown.
She’d keep the massage card and donate the rest. She supported a women’s shelter that would hold their holiday auction soon.
Gemma picked up the handwritten note that came with the cards.
Gemma,
Just a little something to help make our night magical.
Mace
Mace? That sounded like the cards came from Mace the hockey star, not Mason the guy she’d known since kindergarten.
She was reading too much into it. People had always called him Mace. Even she used to sometimes. Maybe he preferred Mace these days.
And yet… something about the note was odd. She lifted it for a closer look.
While it was handwritten, only the signature looked like his, and that seemed pixelated.
As if he’d had someone print off a standard note that he sent to all his—
No, now she was getting paranoid. Even Mason wouldn’t do that.
She set the cards aside and went into her bedroom to pick out a dress and make sure she had the proper footwear to wear it in winter.
The rain was holding off. That was all Gemma could think as she left her apartment that Friday evening.
With November in Vancouver, rain was pretty much a given, and it wasn’t the sweet spring rain that exploded the city into a riot of cherry blossoms. November rain was cold and bitter, in a way that seeped into your bones and didn’t leave until you could soak in a steaming hot bath.
It’d rained earlier in the day, and she just hoped the lingering humidity didn’t turn her curls into a poodle do. Those were her choices this time of year. Poodle or drowned rat.
Mason had been texting to be sure she had everything.
Did she need a driver to take her to the spa?
He could do that. Lunch delivered to the spa?
He could do that, too. It was only after she said no to both that she started to worry he really did expect her to be at the spa and might send over lunch anyway.
She’d explain later. She’d committed to this date, and she didn’t want to risk any temptation to cancel, which might happen if she said she didn’t need the spa visit and he suggested she did.
She looked fine. Her makeup was on point.
Her hair was tamed and semi-sophisticated.
Her dress was a designer piece she’d bought off the sale rack for a pre-wedding “girls’ night out” with Daphne.
Her shoes were a few years out of style, but she didn’t expect the photographers to get full-length shots.
Mason said that his publicist had tipped off the media and confirmed there’d be cameras but only outside the restaurant and the club.
No interior shots, meaning she could eat and dance without fear of cameras.
Without fear of professional cameras, that is.
He pointed that out, too. Expect some candid shots from other diners and club goers that’d be posted on social media.
She stepped onto her apartment building’s front porch. Mason said he’d pick her up at seven thirty. Her apartment was on the edge of the city, and it’d take about twenty minutes to get to the restaurant.
She should have asked what he drove. Probably not a compact car or a family SUV.
A sports car? A luxury pickup? Two words that should never go together: “luxury” and “pickup.” You didn’t actually see a lot of them in Vancouver.
The city was too eco-conscious for that.
Also space-conscious, the disadvantage to settling a major urban center on a peninsula.
Pickup and sports car were her guesses, so when a luxury sedan pulled to the curb, she almost ignored it. Then the driver’s window rolled down.
“Ms. Stanton?” said a middle-aged guy with a hired driver’s cap.
“Yes…” she said cautiously.
The man leapt from the car and opened the back door. “Mr. Moretti is waiting.”
Ah, Mason had hired a driver for them. Good idea. It solved the parking problem.
She climbed in to find the back seat empty. A moment of panic flared, images of being kidnapped by some obsessed hockey fan who’d tracked her down from the TV interview.
Then she mentally replayed Mason’s text.
Pickup at 7:30. Right outside your building front door.
He didn’t say he was picking her up.
He’d sent someone to fetch her. That was… She stifled a prickle of disappointment. This wasn’t a date. It was a business arrangement.
No, it was a celebration. That’s what he’d said. Celebrating her book and helping promote it. He wasn’t getting any business consideration out of it.
He wasn’t, right?
Not that she’d have objected to that. She’d have preferred a fair exchange. But he’d said it was all about her, and she believed him. What could a hockey star get from fake dating a college instructor turned romance novelist? It would be like Daphne asking for an endorsement from Gemma.
There was no reason Mason would need a publicity boost. Gemma had avoided hockey news since Alan left, but she’d checked the Growlers’ stats to help with tonight’s dinner conversation, and the team was doing well.
Ten games into the season with seven wins, two ties, and one loss. They’d won last night.
Shit. Should she have watched last night’s game? She should have at least skimmed a playthrough. She knew Mason had scored a goal, which was unusual, his role being more support, with mostly assists.
She should have watched. Maybe she still had time.