Page 66 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“I think it’s just Mason being funny.”

Grandma Dot leaned over and whispered, “Offer to sign the book.”

“What?” Gemma said.

Grandma Dot rolled her eyes and pantomimed signing.

“Oh, uh…” Gemma looked at the young woman. “Would you like that signed?”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “Please!”

Gemma signed it and chatted until someone else came up to fetch tickets. When they were out of earshot, Grandma Dot said, “Wasn’t that exciting?”

“It would be… if Mason hadn’t set it up.”

Grandma Dot fixed her with a look.

“What?” Gemma said. “You think that young woman just happened to be reading my book?”

“No, I think that girl works for the arena where Mason plays, and she heard about you two and likes romance books and decided to check out yours.”

“Maybe.”

“I also think Mason knows he’s skating on very thin ice and wouldn’t risk doing something you might be embarrassed about later if you discovered he’d set it up. Also he’s not going through the trouble of using a fake name if he told her who you were.”

“So you think she was really reading my book?”

Grandma Dot squeezed Gemma’s arm. “Yes, dear. People are really reading your book.”

Gemma’s smile was so big she had to cough it away before she walked through the arena grinning like a fool.

Mason had suggested they arrive at the last minute, since she didn’t need to find parking or line up to collect tickets. It did mean she couldn’t stop for concessions, but she wanted to be in her seat when the game started.

They found their section—a private seat grouping at rink level—and had to show their ticketsandbe checked off a list. While the arena was packed—you didn’t just decide on game day that you wanted to see the Growlers play—their little area was half-empty.

“VIP seating,” Grandma Dot murmured as they went in.

Gemma was still settling in when someone bustled over. It was a young man, panting as if he’d run all the way around the arena.

“Ms.… Argyle,” he said. “M-Mr. Moretti sent me. To get your order before the game.”

“Order?”

“From the bar. Anything you like. On the house.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet, but we can get it ourselves—”

“No!” the young man blurted, and then cleared his throat. “I mean, there’s no need. I can get anything you want and bypass the lines. It’s what Mr. Moretti would want.”

Gemma looked at the poor kid, his eyes a little too wide, as if begging her to let him fulfill his assigned mission.

“We’d better get something,” Grandma Dot whispered.

“Okay, I’ll take, uh…” Gemma began.

The young man fumbled to pull out his phone. “I have the menu.”

“I’ll take a beer,” Grandma Dot said. “One of those fancy craft brews. And, since Mr. Moretti is paying, I’ll go all out and get a coffee, too.”

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