Page 72 of Writing Mr. Wrong

She looked up at him. “Alan tried to change me. He bought a fixer-upper and got a money pit. Nothing he could do was going to turn me into the kind of wife he wanted.”

“Because he’s a prick who has such shitty taste that he buys an amazing house and tears it down to put up a new one.”

She smiled slightly. “Thanks, but my point is that I’ve been the subject of an unwanted makeover, which makes me really uncomfortable with what you’re asking for.” She shredded a strip off her napkin. “Your personal style works for you, Mace.”

“Does it, though?” He leaned forward. “When I was a young player, I was always watching others, trying to learn. Sometimes, I’d see them making mistakes and I’d think, ‘Do I do that?’ I saw what Argyle did in your book and realize I do the same shit. I’m not asking you to change me, Gemma. I’m asking you to help me see what makes me an asshole. Then it’s up to me to decide what I want to change.”

He gestured toward the front of the restaurant. “I snapped at those kids for trying to sneak a photo. Asshole or not asshole?”

“Not,” she said decisively. “They were sneaking that snap because you clearly didn’t want one.” She paused. “But it was nice of you to let them take it, and I appreciated that you let me choose whether or not I was in it and letting me check the picture.”

“See? Stuff like that. Sometimes, though, yeah, I’m going to be an asshole. I choose to be.”

“You kinda have to, Mace. Refusing photos might seem an asshole move, but they disrespected your privacy.”

He leaned over, touching his fingers to hers, the barest contact.She didn’t pull away, just stared down at his hand, and he carefully risked putting his fingertips over hers.

“You didn’t ask me to read that book,” he said. “Hell, you told me not to. You’ve done nothing to suggest you want me to change. But I also know that…” He shrugged. “When I make a dick move, you start thinking maybe twenty years wasn’t long enough.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Not thatexactly.”

“But kinda that.”

She exhaled, long and slow. It wasn’t an answer, but he could see the net, the shot lined up.

“Parameters,” he said. “I’ll hire a vacation planner, but you’re in charge of all decisions.”

She nodded and sipped her drink. So far, so good.

“You choose the destination,” he said. “You pick the rooms. Is a two-bedroom suite okay? Or would you prefer two suites? I want you to be comfortable.”

“Two bedrooms is fine. We also need a kitchen and a living room. I’m going to want multiple writing spots, preferably a desk or table plus a recliner or sofa where I can put my feet up and work on my laptop.”

“Tell the planner, and they’ll get whatever you want. Now, I did promise to cook, and I won’t renege on that. Just don’t expect gourmet.”

She smiled at that. “All I care about is that I’m not cooking.”

“Okay, well, my repertoire is…” He shrugged. “Limited. I can follow a recipe, though. You could send me ones you like.”

“What do you usually make?”

“My grandmother taught me to cook, so it’s mostly stuff from our restaurant.”

Gemma perked up. “You can make food from Nonna Jean’s?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I order from there all the time.” She paused, as if she’d given away something she didn’t mean to, and then plowed on. “I get delivery.”

“I’ve never seen your name.”

She hesitated, as her cheeks pinked. “I, uh, use my married one. Which is silly, I know. Not like you’d have recognized mine and you’re the owner—you aren’t handling takeout orders.”

“I’ve done pretty much everything from line cook to delivery. The only thing I don’t do is front of house.” He smiled. “I am a shitty server.”

Also, he absolutely would have recognized her name, even if he’d just been flipping through orders. Now he was going to have to look it up and see what she got.

“So that’s what I cook,” he said. “Italian. Jewish. Jewish Italian. The restaurant is kosher. I’m not, but I usually eat turkey sausage and turkey bacon, though obviously I’ll get whatever you want.”

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