Page 47 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“I have all my teeth,” Mason said.

“Don’t joke about my coffee,” Cal said to Mason, “and I won’t tease you about your teeth. As for that interviewer?” An eye roll. “What a witch. Was she nicer in school?”

“Not to me,” Gemma said. “I made the mistake of thinking high school mean kids could grow up to be decent people.”

Cal snorted. “That’s like expecting hockey players to have all their own teeth. Yes, yes, Mason. You do, and you’re obviously very proud of it, as you should be. It’s an accomplishment.”

Mason glowered, as if not sure whether to be insulted. Gemma shook her head and took her hot chocolate as Cal passed it over. The doorbell tinkled, and Cal looked up.

“Be right with you!” Cal called. They finished the second hot chocolate, passed it over, and rang it through with perfect professionalism now that someone else was in the shop.

“Thank you, sir,” Cal said to Mason. “I hope to see you again sometime.”

Mason grunted something, but Gemma didn’t miss the twenty he slid into the tip jar before they left.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

GEMMA

Outside the coffee shop, they snapped a couple of photos for their social media and their publicists. Then they returned to the coastal route and went maybe another five kilometers before taking what didn’t look like an actual road. It led to the kind of deserted cove Gemma had been fantasizing about writing in earlier. Mason parked the bike and led her to a spot sheltered from the wind, where he spread a blanket from the saddlebags.

She opened her mug and took a long draw, closing her eyes and sighing in pleasure as the warm cocoa slid down.

“So good.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Thank you for this. For today. I didn’t realize how much I needed a break, and this one was perfect.” She looked at him. “I really had fun.”

“That was the plan.”

“I don’t get enough of that—” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, thank you.”

He stretched out his legs and took a bite of his croissant. “You think you’ll get a bike again?”

“I do.”

“Did you give yours up when you got married? I know a couple ofguys whose wives asked them to stop riding. Motorcyclesaredangerous. Other drivers don’t always see them.”

“Yes, it was when I got married, and he did claim it was for safety, but…”

She gripped the mug. That was more than she intended to say.

“He made you give up the bike?”

No one makes me do anything.That’s what she wanted to say. What she wanted to snap, chin lifted, eyes flashing.

“I thought he was worried, when he was just…” She shrugged. “Clipping my wings.”

Mason inhaled sharply. “Fuck. Well, I’m glad you got away.”

Her fingers tightened more on her mug, and before she could stop herself, she said, “I didn’t. He left.”

She straightened. “Look at that view. Let’s enjoy that, shall we?” She reached for the pastry bag.

“Whether he left or you did, you still got away.”

“Did you pack any of those jam cookies?”

“You don’t like talking about it?” he said, and she could almost laugh.

Whatever gave you that idea, Mason? Why, yes, I love talking about the humiliating experience of my divorce.

---