Page 35 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Yeah. Good. Um, so… I’ll see you around?”

She didn’t answer, just kept clearing the desk, and he left. She spotted him a few times over the last days of school, but he never spoke to her again.

She’d spent a long time being hurt. A long time feeling humiliated. A long time hating Mason Moretti. And now?

Now she didn’t hate him. Didn’t forgive him either, because that would take an apology, which he hadn’t given. With the hindsight of nearly twenty years, she finally understood what had happenedthat day. He’d kissed her, and then he’d had second thoughts, and if he’d been a decent guy, he’d have said so.

Mason could be a decent guy. He could also be an asshole. And in that moment of his life, he’d been a very certain kind of asshole—a teenage boy who messed up and didn’t know how to handle it, so hedidn’thandle it.

While adult Mason still hadn’t apologized, he did seem to understand that he’d hurt her. He hadn’t made excuses, and he’d been clear that hehadn’tkissed her on a dare. He’d owned up to the fact that he’d done a shitty thing, and she could grumble, but she’d rather he took responsibility for the mistake than give a half-hearted apology.

Gemma shook off the memories and returned to the living room. Seeing Mason awkwardly slumped on the sofa, she sighed.

“Let’s give this another go, shall we?” she said.

She took his hands and tried pulling him to his feet… and nearly ended up on his lap. She put his arm over her shoulders… and nearly ended up in a headlock. And throughout it all, he snored.

Gemma crossed her arms and gave him a very disapproving look. He continued snoring.

At the very least, she felt she should get him out of that soaking wet shirt.

Oh hell, no. You are not playing out that scene, Stanton.

She smiled to herself. True, it was a romance staple. Buff hero needs to remove his shirt—as often as possible. Caught in the rain. Wounded in a fight. Sweaty with fever. Really, the only reason for even putting a buff romance hero in a shirt was so you could take it off again at the first good—or semi-plausible—excuse.

But removing Mason’s shirt was just common sense. He couldn’t afford to catch a cold during hockey season.

That’s not how viruses work.

Or the stain might set.

It’s red wine. On a plum shirt. You can’t even see it.

Didn’t matter. Getting Mason out of this shirt was a necessity.

The top button was undone. She flipped the next one and then the next, slowly revealing a line of dark hair and golden skin. Also muscles. The more she undid, the more muscles there were, and she told herself that would end soon. He was thirty-six, and he might be in amazing shape, but there was no need for a hockey player to have a six-pack. God knows, when she hit thirty, that’s where her extra ounces went.

And… that is not where they went on Mason. The only things marring his perfectly flat stomach were muscles. Damn him. She swallowed and resisted the urge to run her fingers down his chest, even if they were close enough to feel the heat of his skin, and that smell of orange and cloves.

If her mouth was watering, it was the smell. She’d missed dinner. Salivating had nothing to do with the delicious sight revealed, inch by inch, as she carefully peeled away his shirt, and then it was off and—

Damn it.Mason had not looked like this in high school. Oh, he’d taken off his shirt plenty back then, stripping from a sweaty jersey as girls ogled. But he’d been a teenager, lean and fit and just starting to show signs of the muscles to come.

The muscles that had arrived. The body of an NHL enforcer. Bulging biceps. Ripped pecs. Muscled abs. Perfectly toned forearms and big square hands—

He needed a blanket. She looked around the shadowy room and spotted several throws neatly stacked by the fireplace. After much effort and maybe a few unavoidable touches of that warm skin, she got him lying down on the sofa. Then she quickly pulled the blanket over him and stepped back, panting from exertion.

“You reallyaren’twaking up, are you?”

Snore.

“Here’s my dilemma, Mace. It’s seriously awkward hanging out in your condo all night without an invitation. But if you’re that deeply asleep, and you drank more than you’re used to, I’m concerned about you throwing up in your sleep.”

Snore.

“So I guess I’m just praying when you wake up you don’t think it was weird that I stayed. You won’t think it was weird, right?”

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