Page 8 of Writing Mr. Wrong

MASON

M ason stood on the sidewalk and blew into his hands, fending off the chill.

When a silver sedan pulled up, he could just make out Gemma through the smoked glass.

With a grin, he threw open the door and hopped in as she quickly stopped a video on her phone.

Then she peered up and down the street in confusion.

“We’re picking you up here?” she said. “Aren’t we only a block from the restaurant?”

“I thought we should arrive together. For the cameras.”

“To make people think we actually drove in together?”

There was something in her tone that gave him pause, but only for a second.

Then he got a look at her. She’d made good use of those gift cards.

Not that she’d needed the help. Gemma always looked good, and if he was being honest, he preferred her usual casual style.

But this was for the cameras, and it worked. Damn it worked.

“You look good,” he said. “Really good.”

She muttered something like “I clean up well?” and he wasn’t sure how to answer, so he went with “Did you like the spa?”

She started to reply, and the driver said, “We’re here, sir.”

He opened his door, only to realize he was curbside.

“Hold on,” he said, and strode around to open her door, ignoring the honks of traffic.

When she reached to take her umbrella, he caught it and set it back on the seat.

“You don’t need that,” he said. “I’ll make sure you get it later.” He ushered her onto the sidewalk. “The restaurant is just around the corner.”

“Should we start laughing and talking as if we actually drove here together?” she said.

“Good idea.” He glanced over at her. “Do you want to take off your coat, too? It’ll look better for the photos.”

She hesitated, but then removed the coat and draped it over her arm. He glanced at her dress, which was… wow. He was really glad he’d sent the gift card.

The dress was two layers, the bottom one gold silk and the top one black lace.

The silk left little to the imagination, but the lace obscured it just enough that he felt like a preteen boy catching a glimpse of a half-naked woman through curtain sheers.

The neckline was a modest scoop, which only accentuated small, firm breasts under the clingy silk.

That silk clung the whole way down, over her stomach and tight ass, and then the black lace draped lower to swish around her thighs.

Damn. He could feel himself hardening as he watched her walk in that dress.

He adjusted his sport jacket and told himself not to look at Gemma again. At least, not until after the photos.

He put his hand against her back as they approached the corner.

She tensed, and he started to pull his hand away, but then she murmured, as if to herself, “Cameras,” and edged closer, letting his hand rest more firmly there.

It was the perfect posture. Nothing too possessive.

Nothing that screamed they were a couple.

They could just be friends. But if you wanted to read more into it…

He smiled as he turned that corner. At the last second, he realized he shouldn’t look as if he was smiling for the cameras. He needed to be smiling for her, which he actually was. Or smiling because of her. Because Gemma Stanton was walking beside him, wearing a sexy dress—

At a twitch in his trousers, he changed mental tracks fast and leaned down, still smiling, to whisper, “That dress looks amazing on you.”

Cameras flashed when he leaned down, and then more as she touched her head to his arm. “Thank you. I really should have gone for wool, though. Or sleeves. Yep, definitely should have worn something with sleeves.”

He paused. And then he realized what she meant. That she was wearing a thin dress, outdoors, in November. Because some asshole told her to take off her coat… while he was snug in his sports jacket.

He should say something.

No, dumbass, you should offer her your coat.

But they were already at the door. Mason swallowed hard. It was a stumble. That was all. He had this. They’d have an amazing dinner, and then, afterward, he’d ensure she was wearing her coat when they left. His, too, if that helped.

This was going to be fine.

Better than fine.

It was going to be fucking perfect from this moment on. He’d make sure of it.

GEMMA

As they settled into their seats, the blood flow slowly returned to Gemma’s arms, and she resisted the urge to rub down the goose bumps. Holy shit, it’d been cold out there.

Mason was going out of his way to be a gentleman. Opening the front door and then taking the coat from her arm and then pulling out her chair. She’d never pretend she didn’t find gallantry charming, but it was so obviously a show that it kinda defeated the purpose.

They’d barely opened their menus when the drink server appeared. Gemma reached for the cocktail menu… and Mason ordered wine. For both of them.

Pre-Alan Gemma would have said, Uh, I guess you’re drinking that whole bottle then, because I’m having a gin fizz .

She didn’t have a problem saying that to Mason. That was the beauty of being with someone you’d known since childhood. But this was a performance, and she wouldn’t do anything to spoil it, which meant she’d taken off her coat in near-freezing temperatures and now she was apparently drinking wine.

“I’ve heard the salmon is excellent,” he said. “The crab salad is apparently also very good.”

“What do you have?” she asked.

“Usually the rib eye. Sometimes the short ribs.” He smiled. “Gotta keep up my protein.”

She could point out that the salmon had just as much protein.

But she was also thinking of how long it’d been since she had a decent steak.

Alan hadn’t eaten red meat in years, one of his endless health kicks.

She’d thought they were a cute quirk until she realized he was only keeping in shape so he’d be ready when it was time to trade her in for a younger model.

“Rib eye sounds good,” she said and braced for a comment, but he only smiled.

“Good choice,” he said. “I’d suggest the scallops for an appetizer, but the tartare is good, too. Whatever you want.”

She relaxed a little. “The scallops look good.”

He grinned, as if she’d just gushed over his amazing taste in appetizers.

She wanted to inwardly roll her eyes, but he was so damned charming in his braggadocio.

As if he was still that little kid with the skates, talking about how many goals he’d scored, so self-assured that it didn’t seem like boasting.

And that was how you fell for guys like Mason Moretti.

You were charmed in spite of yourself. You cut them slack because they’d earned their right to boast, and if that arrogance bled into narcissism, you decided they’d earned that, too.

You drank the wine they ordered and carried your coat in near-freezing temperatures when they asked.

You basked in the warmth of their blaze and tried to forget that you were soaking up the rays from a sun that didn’t give a damn whether it warmed you or not.

The trick was to figure that out. Then you didn’t run the risk of getting burned again.

Gemma was here for the promo op and for the food, and if she enjoyed the company, that was a bonus.

Two ships, passing in the night.

“Share?” Mason said.

She looked up. “Hmm?”

“You were smiling. Share?”

She waved a hand. “Just thinking that I haven’t had steak in a while. Not good steak anyway. I’m looking forward to it. I—”

She stopped as she saw their server heading over. The young man smiled, his gaze fixed on her. Then he saw Mason and slowed. His mouth set, and his eyes narrowed. Mason glanced over, following her gaze. The young man’s mouth opened, as if to snap something. Then he spun on his heel and stalked off.

“Uh…?” Gemma said. “Did I fail to meet the dress code?”

Mason shifted uncomfortably but plastered on a smile. “I’m sure that was about me. It happens. You get a lot of other hockey fans in Vancouver. The Flames, the Leafs, everyone has a favorite, and it’s not always the hometown team.”

Another server approached, this one a young woman.

“Everything okay?” Gemma asked carefully, looking to where the other server had vanished.

“Yes, of course,” the woman said, a little too cheerfully. “Good to see you, Mr. Moretti. The rib eye or the short ribs?”

He waved for her to take Gemma’s order first. Then he snuck a glance toward where the other server had stalked off. It was obvious that the original one had refused to serve Mason. That was awkward, but it was also a dick move that had Gemma bristling in Mason’s defense.

At least the server hadn’t caused an actual scene. A quick glance around assured her no one else had noticed. Good.

They placed their orders. When the wine arrived, Gemma made sure to drink some.

“I saw you scored a goal last night,” she said as she set down her glass.

His eyes lit so bright that she felt guilty for not having watched it live.

“You caught the game?” he said.

She smiled and hoped it seemed genuine. “It’s been a while since I saw one.”

“You like hockey?”

His expression was boyishly eager, and she felt a stab of guilt.

When she was young, she’d enjoyed going to Growler games with Grandma Dot.

But then came the Mason incident, followed by marriage to a guy who made her feel like a poseur for watching a game when she didn’t understand every last nuance.

“I can follow it,” she said.

The server arrived with the appetizer. She set it in the middle, and they each took a shard of baked Parmesan topped with a scallop.

As Gemma nibbled the Parmesan, she took advantage of the opportunity to get a proper look at Mason. He’d gone with a fitted dress shirt and tie. He should look like a bouncer stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. But the suit was not ill fitting.

The shirt, like his jacket, was obviously tailored, and the style chosen to suit his rough looks, smoothing them over. It was a linen shirt, rich plum, which she wouldn’t have picked as his color, but it brought out the depths in his brown eyes.

A recent shave showed off his full lips and the faint cleft in his chin. His black hair was sleek, curling slightly across his forehead, and when he bent to catch a falling scrap of Parmesan, she noticed the silver threads in his hair. Even that suited him. Damn it, everything suited him.

No one was ever going to call Mason Moretti handsome, but he was sexy as hell, and she couldn’t help being glad he was right across the table so she had an excuse for staring. Just paying attention to her dinner partner, that was all.

When they’d finished the scallops, Mason resumed the conversation with “Yep, I scored a goal last night, which doesn’t happen a whole lot.

” A self-deprecating smile that sent a pang through her, reminding her of the old Mason, the one who’d appear in the newspaper office when it was just the two of them.

“If they paid me by the goals, I wouldn’t be able to afford dinner here. ”

“Because that’s not your job. You get a decent number of assists, but mostly, you’re clearing the way for other players to score.”

His face brightened in a smile so genuine it made her heart twist. “That’s right. People don’t always see that, and they go on about how low my scoring is and why don’t the Growlers trade me.”

“You’ve never been traded. That’s quite the achievement for a career as long as yours.”

That smile sparked again. “I—”

“Mace Moretti,” a voice said, so saccharine sweet that Gemma’s hackles rose.

Gemma looked up—way up—to see a tall woman with a willowy build and razor cheekbones.

Earlier, Gemma had applauded herself for applying makeup that didn’t make her look like a ten-year-old playing with her mother’s stash. This woman’s makeup was so perfect you could believe she was just naturally flawless. Maybe she was.

“Mason,” she purred, setting long fingernails on his upper arm. “Is hockey season over already?”

“Hey… Camille.”

Gemma didn’t fail to notice that pause as if he’d had to search for the woman’s name.

“The season must be over,” she said. “Because you told me, very clearly, that we couldn’t see each other again because you don’t date during the season.”

“I’m a friend,” Gemma said quickly. “From high school.”

“Of course you are.” The woman didn’t even look Gemma’s way. “And how about Heidi? Is she a friend, too? Because she told me you took her out a few weeks ago, after the season started. But that can’t be right, can it?”

“Uh…”

“Don’t strain yourself looking for an excuse, Mace.

One and done, that’s your motto. If only you’d show us the respect of sticking to that and not promising to call.

But you like to keep us dangling, just in case you ever want to reel us in again.

Why? Because you’re…” She leaned over Mason. “An asshole.”

Camille’s hand reached for Mason’s wineglass, Gemma saw what was coming and opened her mouth to warn him, but it was too late.

Camille dumped the wine down the front of Mason’s shirt. As he bit off a yelp, she turned to Gemma. Gemma’s hand shot out to steady her own wineglass, but Camille didn’t reach for it.

“Sorry to end your date this way, hon,” she said. “If anything, consider it an act of sisterly kindness. Best leave this fish in the sea, swimming with the rest of the sharks.”

Camille nodded a goodbye to Gemma and then strode off, chin high, and as Gemma watched her go, she barely suppressed the urge to applaud.

You had to give the woman credit for calling a guy out for that shit.

It was, however, far more awkward when the “guy” was sitting across the table, dripping wet and looking…

Looking mortified.

Gemma quickly handed Mason her napkin. “We should go.”

“No, I’ve got this.” He patted his shirt with one hand while reaching for his suit jacket with the other. “I’ll just put this on.”

“You’re not sitting here with a wet shirt, Mason.”

His jaw set. “I’ll be fine. It was a misunderstanding.”

Yeah, pretty sure the only misunderstanding was that she believed you when you said you’d call.

Gemma looked around. Everyone was staring at them.

“You wanted steak,” Mason said, yanking on his jacket. “You’re getting steak.”

“Uh, Mason?” She nodded toward someone openly lifting a phone to snap a photo. “I really think we should go.”

He glared toward the camera and rose, fists balling, and for a second, Gemma thought she’d need to leap up and stop a fight. But then he glanced her way and a guilty, almost sheepish, look crossed his face.

“May we leave?” she whispered. “Please?”

He nodded and put out a hand to help her from her chair.