The camera operator counted down as Ashley hopped onto the adjoining stool. Not only didherfeet touch the ground, but wearing jeans meant she could cross her legs.
Gemma focused on keeping her knees closed and prayed she didn’t get carried off by nervous enthusiasm and start swinging her feet. Although that might win her the pity vote. She’d totally buy a book from any author who made a fool of themselves on live television.
She should have asked her publicist about that. As marketing strategies went, how many sales could she win by making a total fool—
“Happy Tuesday!” Ashley trilled as the cameras rolled. “We havesucha treat for you today. Get ready for a morning jam-packedwith goodies. Later, I’ll introduce you to a man who trains capuchin monkeys as seeing-eye pets. Monkeys! They are the cutest things ever! And I promised to share that recipe for nonfat sugar-free caramel corn. First, though, local author Gemma Stanton’s debut novel came out today.”
Ashley spokesmodel-waved. Gemma straightened, ready to say hello, when she realized Ashley was indicating the screen instead. They’d taken down the book cover during the intro. Now, out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw it return. And when it did, peals of laughter rang out from the crew.
Gemma froze.
Romance covers had always been a source of mockery, but this wasn’t one of those old-school clinch covers with the heroine practically humping the hero’s leg. Sure, Laird Argyle had apparently lost his shirt in battle, but it happened.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the right one.” Ashley’s voice took on a tee-hee singsong. “Someone in the art department seems to have done a little facial reconstruction.”
Oh, shit. Gemma turned to the screen… and saw Mason Moretti’s face over the cover model’s. And just to clarify who Mason was, they’d replaced Laird Argyle’s sword with a hockey stick.
“Hmm,” Ashley said, with a thoughtful finger to her lips. “Let’s see the real cover.”
Both versions appeared side by side.
“That is astrikingsimilarity,” Ashley said. “Now, I should mention that Gemma and I went to high school together… the same high school as a certain local star player.”
The blood drained out of Gemma as the temperature in the room plummeted.
Play along. Just play along.
Gemma forced a laugh. “I guess that does look a little like Mason. I’d love to take credit for giving our old classmate a shout-out, but authors don’t design their covers or pick their cover models.”
“But they do write the book, and that looks an awful lot like the guy you describe.”
Ashley picked up the novel and started to read, her words drowned out by the crashing in Gemma’s ears.
She’d been set up.
Was she actually shocked? In school, Ashley and Gemma had always sparred—the polished cheerleader and the smart-mouthed valedictorian, circling each other. Now Ashley was mocking Gemma on live TV? What a surprise.
But they weren’t teenagers anymore. Gemma hadn’t seen Ashley in over a decade. Why would she do this?
Because she could. Because some girls never get past high school.
Ashley closed the book and wagged her finger at Gemma. “Sounds to me like someone had a crush.”
Gemma opened her mouth to laugh it off, to say something, anything, salvage this—
“Oh!” Ashley gracefully hopped from her chair. “Look who just walked into the studio.”
Ashley threw open her arms, and Gemma turned slowly as the piped-in hockey announcer’s gravelly voice rolled out a familiar intro.
“And here he is, folks, the one, the only, the Growlers’ not-so-secret weapon. Give it up for… the Mace!”
Gemma patiently waited for the nightmare to end. It was fine. Just fine. A bad dream, that was all. A bad dream where Ashley invited Mason Moretti himself to join them, plunking him and Gemmaboth down on that cozy little love seat, with his arm around her shoulders and that grin on his face.
Gemma hated that grin. Always had. She’d even told him so, after his English teacher said he could earn a passing grade by volunteering for the school paper, where the editor would write his articles for him. Except the editor was Gemma, who sure as hell was not writing Mason’s articles for him. He’d shown up at the tiny newspaper office an hour before he was due to deliver his first article and said his computer ate it, while giving Gemma that ridiculous grin.
“Does that usually work?” she’d said.
“Does what usually work?”
