Page 19 of Writing Mr. Wrong

She sighed. “Fine, come in. But if I ask you to leave, you will, right?”

“I will.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

GEMMA

One 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 therewouldbe 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, alot—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 inordinatelyfond 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? Whatevershewanted?

“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 beheridea 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.

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