Page 1 of Writing Mr. Wrong

CHAPTER ONE

GEMMA

Gemma Stanton stared down at her newly released first novel and told herself—for the hundredth time—that the kilted Highland laird on the front didnotlook like Mason Moretti and absolutelyno onewould realize she’d used the pro hockey player as her inspiration. While she was sure many sports stars had inspired romance heroes, in this case, it was not a compliment.

Fucking Mason Moretti.

She shook her head, set the book on her lap, and looked around the tiny green room. In the corner, a TV was tuned toVancouver This Morning. The cheery title card showed a skyline backdrop of a ridiculously blue ocean and a blinding sun that reminded people November would not last forever.

Gemma’s interview would open the show… which wasn’t stressful at all.

She took a few deep breaths. She’d do fine. Just fine.

If only she could stop fretting about her dress. She should have worn jeans and a sweater. That’s what she’d picked out and paired with a new pair of boots, and it’d looked good, damn it. But then the doubt crept in, and she’d grabbed a dress instead. Now she fretted that she was filling a stereotype—the romance author in a flowery dress and heels.

She hated this anxious version of herself. She’d written a romance? Deal with it. The book had sex scenes? It sure did. If she risked being labeled a lonely middle-aged divorcée who poured her most torrid fantasies into a book, she didn’t give a damn. Anyone who’d spent a decade married to a two-minute champ was entitled to a stockpile of unfulfilled erotic fantasies.

“Gemma?”

She instinctively tensed as a woman slipped into the room. Ashley Porter. Head cheerleader and certified mean girl—

No, Gemma mentally corrected. That had been high school. Ashley was now host of Vancouver’s hottest morning show, where she was renowned for being a total sweetheart. When Gemma’s publicist asked about local media contacts, Gemma hadn’t dared include Ashley on the list. It’d been Ashley who reached out and offered this. The prime morning show slot on Gemma’s release day.

Now Ashley breezed in wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater that could have been the twin of the one Gemma almost wore. Ashley’s sable hair gleamed under the lights, and her tan whispered of a recent trip south. The sapphire sweater perfectly matched Ashley’s eyes, and the boots had to have cost triple Gemma’s bargain bin find. Also, Gemma didn’t fill out her sweater like that. Or her jeans.

Yep, switching to the dress had been a very good call.

As Ashley enveloped Gemma in a hug, the sweet scent of apple and water lily washed over Gemma, and she tensed so hard it was practically a spasm.

Princess by Vera Wang—the same perfume Ashley wore in high school. The same scent she’d worn on the last day of school, whenshe’d cornered Gemma and leaned in to whisper, “You really thought Mason would look twice at you, Gemma? Mason Moretti?”

Present-day Gemma gritted her teeth and admitted that she hadn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine at that age either. All teeth and attitude, as one boy had muttered when she’d flipped him off for smacking her ass.

Ashley released her from the noxious cloud of perfume. “I amsohappy for you, Gem. I remember what an amazing writer you were. I always knew I’d see your name on a book someday.”

Gemma tensed again, braced for some snarky comment slammed in on the knifepoint of a cheerful chirp. Twenty years ago, she’d have been ready with a comeback. But she wasn’t that confident and smart-mouthed girl anymore, as much as she was desperately trying to find her again.

Ashley continued, “I’ll admit I couldn’t believe you’d written aromance.” Here it came… “But I’m so glad you did. I love historical fiction, and Laird Argyle is…” Ashley made a swooning noise, hand to her forehead.

Huh. Apparently her writing group had been right. Readers did go for asshole romantic leads.

The first romance Gemma had written featured the kind of guysheliked—sweet and considerate. When it hadn’t sold, her writing group had talked her into penning what the market seemed to want. An alpha hero. A self-absorbed, egotistical, inconsiderate, talks-with-his-fists asshole. So she’d dipped into her past and pulled up the perfect guy for the role.

Mason Moretti had been her school’s golden boy. The kind of athlete who comes around once in a century. He’d gone on to play enforcer for the Vancouver Growlers, because of course he did. Tobe an enforcer, you had to be an asshole, and Mason was the best. Or the worst, depending on how you looked at it.

The worst. Mason Moretti was definitely the worst.

MASON

Mason Moretti didn’t need anyone to show him to the TV studio green room. Ashley wrangled him on her show every chance she could, and his damned publicist wouldn’t let him say no. But this time was different. He smiled to himself as he reached for the green room door.

“Whoops!” Ashley appeared from nowhere and held the door shut. “Gemma’s in there. Let’s take you down here.”

Ashley led him down the hall, chattering away. Mason would never say he liked Ashley as a person, but she was useful, and she knew it and used it to her full advantage. He couldn’t fault her for that, because he used her right back. Not likethat. Never like that. Oh, Ashley had been letting him knowthatwas on the table since high school, but you don’t grow up in the spotlight without being able to smell a baited trap at a hundred paces.

Speaking of baited traps, this whole interview felt a little… unsettling. Suspicious. Ashley said Gemma knew he’d be here, but what if…?

“How’s Gemma?” he asked. “Is she—?”

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