“Get your head out of the clouds,” Alan would snap. “You’re always daydreaming.”
It’s called escape, my dear. Mental escape from life with you.
Before she could think to check the peephole, Gemma yanked open the door and—
“Mason?”
Mason Moretti stood on her doorstep, complete with his ridiculous grin and two steaming cups of coffee.
“I brought the java to you,” he said, with a little bow.
“How’d you get past the front door?”
His brows shot up. “Really? That’s your question?”
“Oh, I have more.”
“I tried calling,” he said as he shifted his hip against the door frame. Like earlier, he was in a T-shirt. Did the man not own a jacket? Or sleeves? It was November. Except… let’s be honest. If you have biceps like Mason Moretti, wearing short sleeves could be considered a public service.
Damn it. He hadn’t had those arms in high school. He’d been fit, of course, but now he was just…
Fine. So fine. Hot as hell, with the kind of body that made her remember how long it’d been since she had sex. And how long it’d been since she hadgoodsex.
In that regard, Mason Moretti would probably be horrible. Even more selfish than Alan.
But the Mason she remembered had been surprisingly considerate when it was just the two of them. And that kiss… definitely not selfish.
Sex with Mason Moretti would be—
What the hell? Stop. Reverse.
What had he been saying? She had no fucking idea, because Mason was standing outside her apartment, looking steamier than that coffee.
“You weren’t answering,” he said when she didn’t respond.
Right. He said he’d called. She’d ignored three calls from a number she didn’t recognize.
Her eyes narrowed. “How did you get my number? And my home address?”
“May I come in?” he asked. “I brought coffee.”
His dark brown eyes twinkled. He held out one of the cups, and she hesitated, but ignoring it felt petty, so she took it with a grudging grunt of thanks.
“And I have come with something else as well.” He put on a terrible Italian American accent. “An offer you can’t refuse.”
She met his eyes. “Wanna bet?”
He laughed. It was his real laugh, but deeper and sexier than she remembered. Because of course it was.Hewas sexier than she remembered. But not deeper. Mason Moretti was all surface and always had been, and just when you thought you were getting a rare peek at the guy behind the hockey mask, you realized you were gazing into a shallow pool, at a reflection of what you wanted to see.
Even as Gemma thought that, part of her squirmed, as if she was being unfair.
Too bad. She wanted to be unfair. Whatever it took to get this ridiculously sexy—and completely unsuitable—guy off her doorstep.
“Whatever the offer is, Mason, the answer is no. If you need to speak to me again, I have voicemail.”
“So you’d rather I called?”
“Yes.”
