Page 98 of Writing Mr. Wrong

She had to admit to that part, too. She was scared. It was like when she’d had a dream that her book went viral and she hitDaphne-level fame. Most of her had swooned at the thought… but a little bit said no, it would be too much, too overwhelming, too life altering.

Being with Mason Moretti would be too much. Too overwhelming. Too life altering.

What mattered at this moment wasn’t how she felt. She could work that out. What mattered was that he’d just backed out of the room looking like she’d sucker punched him.

She had to fix this.

Gemma found Mason easily enough. He’d left the villa but was already coming back, wearing his swim trunks from yesterday, her bikini in one hand.

“Got this,” he said, lifting the bikini. “Before the tide took it away.”

“Uh, okay. So—”

“Breakfast will be a redo of yesterday. Like I warned, my repertoire is limited. Give me half an hour. You want coffee?”

“I—”

“Course you do. Silly question.” He smiled then, and it was an awful smile, the fakest she’d ever seen. “Grab your laptop. I’ll make coffee. And fruit?”

“Mason—”

“Sure, fruit. Maybe a smoothie.”

She stepped into his path, and she swore his nostrils flared, the briefest show of anger before he reined it in.

“I’d like to talk,” she said.

“No need. You made yourself very clear.” He rubbed his face.“That came out wrong. You know what I mean. Miscommunication, that’s all. No harm, no foul, right?” That fake grin again, wider now.

“Mason—”

He put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down. “Seriously. It’s fine. Last night was great. I took my shot. Can’t blame me for that. And I can’t blame you for not feeling the same way.”

“Can we talk? Please?”

“Nothing to talk about. Except breakfast. Let me get going on that.”

He ducked around her and headed into the villa, leaving her standing there, feeling worse than she had in a very long time.

It’d been three hours since Mason walked out of her bedroom, and it felt like thirty. Gemma had figured he just needed a little time to recover, and then they’d talk. But that wasn’t happening, and the more she pushed, the more he retreated.

Everything was fine. Just fine. Sure, he didn’t want to spend two minutes with her, but it was fine.

He’d made breakfast and then gone into his room “to dress,” telling her he wasn’t hungry, go ahead and eat. A half hour later, he came out and declared he was going for a swim. She asked to join, but nope, she was here to work, and it was work time. He’d see her at lunch.

Gemma didn’t know how to deal with this. He refused to talk. He refused to acknowledge anything was wrong. He refused tofeel. If an emotion seemed ready to surface, he tamped it down, grinned, and said,Nothing to see here.

That… oh hell. It scared her.

Her family was all about emotions, expressing them and acknowledging them, the good and the bad. Alan had hated that. It was messy and gauche.

So for all the ways that Mason was nothing like Alan, was this a thing they had in common?

They were bound to have a lot in common. Likes, dislikes, pet peeves… but this one was a problem, in a way that Alan’s hatred of green beans had not been. She could live without green beans. Or bacon. But she could no longer live without acknowledging when she was angry, hurt, frustrated.

She’d hurt Mason, and he wasn’t going to let her fix it, and if this was how they were going to spend the rest of her trip…

Her stomach clenched.

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