Mason slumped and pushed away his empty glass. “I know. So how do I make it up to her?”
Jesse sipped his own drink, his gaze going distant. Then he mused, “This fake dating thing might work, as long as she knows it’s fake.”
“She does.”
“And as long as you really are trying to help her career and notjustfix your own. It’s fine if it also benefits you, but it needs to be mutually advantageous.”
“It will be.”
“Then offer something she can’t resist. Not just a date but anexperience.”
The corners of Mason’s mouth twitched.
Jesse shook his head. “Notthat. How about dinner at Nonna Jean’s?”
“Take her to my own restaurant? That’s a cheap-ass move.”
Growing up, Mason’s paternal grandmother had lived in the next apartment complex, and that’s where he’d taken shelter, in the kitchen where she ran her catering service.
Mason had always sworn he’d use his first NHL paycheck to buy Nonna Jean her own restaurant. She hadn’t mocked him, like his dad would have. She hadn’t cried, like his mom would have. Nonna Jean just kissed him on the forehead and said nothing.
As Mason would discover, NHL starting paychecks didn’t cover a restaurant purchase. But he’d saved up, and thatwasthe first thing he bought: a little café where his grandmother could cook the Jewish Italian cuisine from her childhood, from before his great-grandfather decided being an Italian Jew in the forties was a damn fine reason to immigrate to Canada.
Nonna Jean was now eighty-two and, while she still kept a firm grip on the business, she’d ceded the cooking to others, though she still commandeered the kitchen now and again.
He was there himself a few times a week. When he had the time and needed to relax, he came in and cooked. That part was a secret. Patrons didn’t come for Mason Moretti’s cooking. They came for the food and NHL memorabilia and, maybe, to catch a glimpse of “the Mace” himself.
As proud as Mason was of Nonna Jean’s, it wasn’t fancy. Mason didn’t even know if Gemma liked that sort of food. The last two times he’d mentioned it on dates, the women had looked at himwith horror, as if he’d suggested they dine on baby seals. Italian food? All those carbs? Absolutely not.
Jesse’s voice pulled Mason back. “Do it on a Monday, when the restaurant is closed. A special opening just for her. Invite media to take shots as you arrive, but then have a private meal. Show her what you’ve built there. Talk about your grandmother. Cook for her—”
“No.”
“Why not? You’re a good cook.”
“I’m adecentcook. Not good. Decent.”
“She won’t care. It’s not about the food, Mace, it’s about—”
“Gemma deserves better. I should take her to Maize.”
Maize was the hottest place in town, with a wait list so long you couldn’t evenjoinit… unless you were Mason Moretti.
“Mmm. Maize is fine,” Jesse said. “But I think Nonna—”
“I’ll go all out.” Mason reached for the peanuts and cracked one open. “Give her an experience, like you said. A dream date with everything she could want. And me.”
Jesse clapped Mason’s shoulder. “Make it memorable enough, and she’ll overlook that part.”
Mason flicked a peanut at him.
“All jokes aside,” Jesse said. “You gotta promise me something, buddy.” He leaned over the table, his expression somber. “If she says she doesn’t want to go out with you, you need to stop asking.”
Mason cracked open another peanut.
“Mace… I also know you’ve never met a challenge you can’t barrel through headfirst. But this isn’t like that. She’s said no already. More than once.”
“I know. I’ll take one last shot. Then I need to take no for an answer.”
