Page 3 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“It adds character.”

She sighed. Deeply. “It does, damn you. Get up. Let’s go.”

Nadia ushered him into the hall, where a woman waited with a printed photo, pen outstretched. Mason reached for it automatically, only at the last moment remembering to confirm it was a photo of him.

“My daughter is such a fan,” the woman gushed. “She plays hockey, too.”

“Good for her.” He signed the photo as he walked, the woman jogging along beside him. “Maybe she’ll be the first woman in the NHL.”

He always said that. He meant it, but the words sounded hollow, a sentiment repeated too often to have any meaning.

“Hey, Moretti,” a voice called.

Still walking, Mason turned and lifted a hand in automatic greeting.

“I hear Denny is still in the hospital.” A middle-aged guy appeared, face set in an expression Mason knew only too well these days. “You got anything to say about that?”

Mason shrugged. “Hockey’s a rough game.”

He hated the words, but that’s what he’d been told to say.Don’t apologize. Don’t get flustered.Mason wasn’t the one who put the Growlers’ young star center in the hospital. Not his fault the kid got hurt.

Not his fault… unless his actual job was protecting his teammates. Unless he’d seen the guy going for Denny and…

And what, Mason? What happened out there?

He pushed the thought aside as staff members elbowed his accuser away. The guy would get a talking-to later. This was supposed to be a safe space for Mason. No one would mention the incident with Denny. No one would ask what happened out there.

Which was good, because Mason had no fucking idea what happened.

He only knew that he hadn’t done his job, and a brilliant young player went to the hospital. People were pissed off.

And he didn’t blame them.

Didn’t blame them at all.

CHAPTER TWO

GEMMA

The set was arranged like a café, with a love seat and chair to the left and a little breakfast counter to the right. When Ashley had led Gemma in, Gemma had eyed the love seat longingly, only to be directed to one of the ridiculously high stools at the counter. As she waited for the show to begin, she perched on the stool, keenly aware of how her legs swung like a toddler’s. She went to cross her legs, only to feel her skirt ride up.

Do not flash the audience, Gem.

Might sell more books.

Mmm, no, that’s not really your target audience.

Focus on her target audience. Women like her, a lifelong romance novel reader. What would convince her to pick upA Highland Fling?

The hot guy in a kilt.

Except the hot guy… She glanced at the cover filling the floor-to-ceiling screen. When she’d completed the publisher form, she’d thought her description of Laird Argyle was vague enough. Dark, wavy hair. Square face. Wide forehead. Strong jawline. Rough looking, as if he knew his way around a bar brawl. An average face but with a body that meant your gaze never rose above hisneck. Broad shoulders. Bulging biceps. Perfectly defined pecs and abs. All that… in a kilt.

She hadn’t specified eye color, let alone mentioned dark beard scruff and a nose that’d been broken a few times. Maybe the last part seemed obvious to the cover designer. It was a romance trope after all—hot bruisers always had crooked noses.

The designer took all that and… Gemma glanced at the cover again. Damn. It really did look like Mason Moretti.

The only reason Gemma saw it was that she knew who the inspiration had been. No one else would spot any resemblance between a Scottish Highland laird and a Canadian hockey player.

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