Page 48 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Mason, across the space, is mid-conversation with a group of guests. He wears midnight blue and shadowed stubble, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, collar relaxed like he never learned how to worry. His hands move as he tells a story, drawing laughter and attention like gravity. He catches Alexandra’s eye.

She lifts her glass in mock salute. "Still working the crowd, Wolfe?"

He saunters over, slipping between guests with the grace of someone used to navigating pit crews and cocktail galas alike. "Networking," he says innocently. "It’s called charisma. You should try it."

"I prefer precision to charm."

"You’re allowed to have both. I read that in a fortune cookie once."

Alexandra’s lips twitch. "Do you often base your life philosophy on dessert packaging?"

"Only when it’s right."

He leans in just enough for her to tilt back half an inch.

"You’re persistent."

"You’re fascinating."

She laughs softly. It’s rare. Real.

"Careful," she murmurs. "I might start believing you."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

She considers it. "Depends on your footwork."

He offers his hand. "One more dance. This time I promise not to step on your plan for global domination."

She hesitates, then takes it. The clip ends with them in mid-spin, laughter unguarded, the city glowing behind them. But what the cameras don’t fully catch, what only the human eye sees, is the moment afterward.

He steadies her with a hand at her waist, just a second too long. She doesn’t step away.

“You’re better at that than you let on,” she says, slightly breathless.

Mason grins. “I contain multitudes.”

“I doubt that.”

“Then keep dancing with me. Find out.”

She starts to say something, something sharp, maybe, but it melts. She looks out toward the city instead.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says.

“I know,” he replies. “But maybe it could.”

She doesn’t answer. Just lets the silence stretch between them. Soft. Suspicious. Hopeful. That’s how it begins, but it doesn’t end there. After the spin, they retreat to a quiet corner of the rooftop, a little lounge nook half-shadowed by a flowering trellis and the soft flicker of candlelight. The laughter fades around them, replaced by the ambient hush of city sounds and distant jazz.

Alexandra sits first, crossing her legs with practiced poise. Mason flops down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow seat.

He glances at her. "You always this hard to read?"

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just sips her drink, then sets it down on the low table. "I’m not built for easy narratives."

He watches her, serious now. "And what narrative do you think people expect from you?"

"That I’m cold. Strategic. Too difficult to love."

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