Page 9 of Writing Mr. Wrong

“She’s a brand-new author with a brand-new book. She’ll appreciate the buzz.”

“So I’d come clean with her. Tell her it’s for publicity.”

“Uh…” Terrance cleared his throat. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Yeah, it is. Like I said, Gemma’s good people. I’m not doing anything that might hurt or embarrass her.”Been there, done that.“I know her. We were friends.”Bit of a stretch…“I’ll put it to her straight up. She’ll see how it benefits her.”

“If that’s what you think is best.”

“It is. I just need her number. Get it for me.”

Mason hung up without waiting for an answer. Then he smiled to himself. Part of his bad mood had been about Gemma turning him down for coffee. He hadn’t known how to ask again without sounding creepy. Now he did.

CHAPTER FOUR

GEMMA

Gemma stared at the blinking cursor and wasn’t sure whether she wanted to weep in frustration or pummel the laptop into submission.

More like pummel her muse into submission.

She’d blown her deadline, something she’d never even done with a school essay. She couldn’t blame work, because she was on a term-long leave to write her second book, even though the advance didn’t come close to covering her salary.

When she’d warned her editor about the delay, she’d blamed her endless and excruciating divorce. She hadn’t expected it to be so bad, which was laughable. Alan wasn’t an asshole—he was an absolute bastard. Had she really thought he’d let her off easy?

Itshouldhave been easy. After all, he was the one who walked away. She hadn’t even asked for alimony, despite having earned it, having given up her dreams of a doctorate to get him through business school.

As soon as I’m done, it’s your turn, babe.

It’d never been her turn. There’d always been something more important, even though he’d made it clear she wasn’t measuringup as a corporate wife. Not pretty enough. Not charming enough. Definitely not polished enough.

So he found someone who better suited his needs. His goddamned PA, which would be hilarious in its utter mundanity if the woman hadn’t been everything Alan wanted Gemma to be—charming and polished and gorgeous. Also ten years younger.

It couldn’t get more humiliating than that, right? Of course it could. At the very first divorce meeting, he’d shown up with his girlfriend and their eleven-month-old son… after walking out on Gemma sixteen months earlier.

Gemma might not have been a math major, but she could do simple addition and subtraction.

The worst part wasn’t even that he’d cheated on her. It was throwing that baby in her face. She’d had three miscarriages during their marriage. Three babies she’d desperately wanted, and when she broached the subject of adoption, Alan had refused. He wanted his own child. It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t carry to term.

Couldn’t even do that right, could you, Gem?

Yes, Alan was a bastard, and the divorce had been hell, which was a fine excuse for blowing her deadline. It was also a lie.

Why wasn’t the book done? Because Gemma hated her characters. She hadn’tmindedEdin and Tavish fromA Highland Fling. She hadn’t loved them the way she’d loved the ones in her unpublished romance. She’d dreamed of those characters.Highlandhad been more work, but she’d finished it. This one, though? The woman was a doormat, and the guy was an even bigger dick than Laird Tavish Argyle.

Ifyouhate them, how do you expect readers to like them?

She pushed aside the voice, which sounded suspiciously like her sister-in-law Daphne’s. She just had to get this one done, and then, ifHighlandsold decently, she could suggest a change of direction for a new contract, with characters more to her—

Someone rapped on her door, a friendly staccato knock.

Gemma frowned as she peered toward the front hall. The building might be crap, but it had controlled entry, so it couldn’t be a visitor. She didn’t know her neighbors yet, even though it’d been a year and she had no excuse. She always used to know her neighbors. Just like she always used to have a wide circle of friends. Then she met Alan.

Another rap, with slightly more force.

Maybe it was a service call, and she’d missed the notice. God knows, her place needed repairs. Vancouver was the most expensive city in Canada and—

The third knock fairly rang with impatience.

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