Page 2 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“She’s fine. Just fine.” Ashley steered him into the makeup room. “Stay in here. Makeup will be in shortly.”

After Ashley left, Mason glanced around the tiny room, with its three salon-style swivel chairs and massive mirrors. He settledinto the middle chair and shrugged off his unease like an ill-fitting shirt. Worrying didn’t suit him. In this case, it only reminded him of all those years he’d spent worrying that Gemma Stanton hated his guts.

But she obviously didn’t hate him, because she’d written a romance novel with him as the hero. If Gemma had been pissed off, she wouldn’t have hesitated to let him know—with both barrels.

Gemma Stanton…

As Mason propped his feet on the adjoining chair, he remembered the first time he’d spoken to Gemma. Kindergarten. The cloakroom. It’d been October, the little room overflowing with Halloween decorations. He’d arrived late, after an early morning lesson, and he’d been hanging up his skates when Gemma walked in from the classroom.

She’d looked from the skates to him. “You skate?”

Under her level gaze, he couldn’t help puffing up. He knew who she was, this little pixie of a girl with freckles and eyes the color of fresh grass and hair that reminded him of a wheat field in fall.

“I play hockey,” he’d said.

“You any good?”

“I’m the best.”

She’d rolled those green eyes and taken something from her cubby. She’d been about to walk away, and he’d been struggling for something to say, when she turned back. Her gaze dropped to his shoes, and she lowered her voice.

“Miss Wang’s sick. We have someone else, and she made Jay sit in the corner for tracking in dirt.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He reached down to switch to his indoor shoes and then looked up to thank her. But she was already gone, leaving him hanging there, wishing he hadn’t been so flustered that he’d forgotten to saythank you.

Gemma had always been nice to him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

He shook that off. The point was that she didn’t hate him. You don’t write a romance novel about a guy you hate, right?

“Mason Moretti,” a voice said from the doorway.

He looked to see a young woman carrying a makeup case. Late twenties, with a jet-black bob and powdered white skin. She always did his makeup. Which meant he should know her name, but he was so bad at that. Too many names, he told himself. Too many people who flitted in and out of his life. He couldn’t be expected to remember them all… and yet he was expected to, and when he forgot, it made something in his stomach twist, and his brain shout that he needed to fix thisnow.

He knew he had had the makeup artist’s name in his contact info for Ashley so he could refresh his memory. It was one of his many tricks for coping in a life where he briefly connected with endless people. But he’d been so focused on seeing Gemma again that he’d forgotten to check his notes.

He glanced at the young woman. When he hadn’t responded, she’d started taking out the little pots, snapping each down with a clack.

He tried to fix it with a broad smile. He might not be the hottest player on the team, but he had all his teeth, which was kind of a miracle, all things considered.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Of course I do. The best makeup artist in Vancouver.” He smiled again.

“If you don’t remember my name, just admit it.”

“I—”

“It’s Nadia,” she said. “Not that it matters to you.”

Mason’s gut twisted. Hedidremember her. He’d just temporarily forgotten her name. But it was too late to fix that. It was always too late.

Do better.

They were finishing up when someone rapped on the door. “Two minutes,” a man called.

Nadia studied Mason, hands on her hips. “Can’t work miracles with that mug. How many times have you been hit in the face?”