She stopped as she saw their server heading over. The young man smiled, his gaze fixed on her. Then he saw Mason and slowed. His mouth set, and his eyes narrowed. Mason glanced over, following her gaze. The young man’s mouth opened, as if to snap something. Then he spun on his heel and stalked off.
“Uh…?” Gemma said. “Did I fail to meet the dress code?”
Mason shifted uncomfortably but plastered on a smile. “I’m sure that was about me. It happens. You get a lot of other hockey fans in Vancouver. The Flames, the Leafs, everyone has a favorite, and it’s not always the hometown team.”
Another server approached, this one a young woman.
“Everything okay?” Gemma asked carefully, looking to where the other server had vanished.
“Yes, of course,” the woman said, a little too cheerfully. “Good to see you, Mr. Moretti. The rib eye or the short ribs?”
He waved for her to take Gemma’s order first. Then he snuck a glance toward where the other server had stalked off. It was obvious that the original one had refused to serve Mason. That was awkward, but it was also a dick move that had Gemma bristling in Mason’s defense.
At least the server hadn’t caused an actual scene. A quick glance around assured her no one else had noticed. Good.
They placed their orders. When the wine arrived, Gemma made sure to drink some.
“I saw you scored a goal last night,” she said as she set down her glass.
His eyes lit so bright that she felt guilty for not having watched it live.
“You caught the game?” he said.
She smiled and hoped it seemed genuine. “It’s been a while since I saw one.”
“You like hockey?”
His expression was boyishly eager, and she felt a stab of guilt. When she was young, she’d enjoyed going to Growler games with Grandma Dot. But then came the Mason incident, followed by marriage to a guy who made her feel like a poseur for watching a game when she didn’t understand every last nuance.
“I can follow it,” she said.
The server arrived with the appetizer. She set it in the middle, and they each took a shard of baked Parmesan topped with a scallop.
As Gemma nibbled the Parmesan, she took advantage of the opportunity to get a proper look at Mason. He’d gone with a fitted dress shirt and tie. He should look like a bouncer stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. But the suit was not ill fitting.
The shirt, like his jacket, was obviously tailored, and the style chosen to suit his rough looks, smoothing them over. It was a linen shirt, rich plum, which she wouldn’t have picked as his color, but it brought out the depths in his brown eyes.
A recent shave showed off his full lips and the faint cleft in his chin. His black hair was sleek, curling slightly across his forehead, and when he bent to catch a falling scrap of Parmesan, she noticedthe silver threads in his hair. Even that suited him. Damn it, everything suited him.
No one was ever going to call Mason Moretti handsome, but he was sexy as hell, and she couldn’t help being glad he was right across the table so she had an excuse for staring. Just paying attention to her dinner partner, that was all.
When they’d finished the scallops, Mason resumed the conversation with “Yep, I scored a goal last night, which doesn’t happen a whole lot.” A self-deprecating smile that sent a pang through her, reminding her of the old Mason, the one who’d appear in the newspaper office when it was just the two of them. “If they paid me by the goals, I wouldn’t be able to afford dinner here.”
“Because that’s not your job. You get a decent number of assists, but mostly, you’re clearing the way for other players to score.”
His face brightened in a smile so genuine it made her heart twist. “That’s right. People don’t always see that, and they go on about how low my scoring is and why don’t the Growlers trade me.”
“You’veneverbeen traded. That’s quite the achievement for a career as long as yours.”
That smile sparked again. “I—”
“Mace Moretti,” a voice said, so saccharine sweet that Gemma’s hackles rose.
Gemma looked up—way up—to see a tall woman with a willowy build and razor cheekbones.
Earlier, Gemma had applauded herself for applying makeup that didn’t make her look like a ten-year-old playing with her mother’s stash. This woman’s makeup was so perfect you could believe she was just naturally flawless. Maybe she was.
“Mason,” she purred, setting long fingernails on his upper arm. “Is hockey season over already?”
