Alan hadn’t physically abused her. Hadn’t overtly emotionally or psychologically abused her. He’d just carved away little bits of her. Slices of her self-confidence and slices of herself, all the things that made her Gemma Stanton. Quirky, opinionated, in-your-face Gemma Stanton.
Like a sculptor with his chisel, Alan had cut off all her inconvenient edges. A motorcycle. A PhD. Friends. Writing. A deft flick of the knife, and off it went. He molded her into what he wanted, until only the bare skeleton of old Gemma remained, and then he stood back, surveyed his work, and declared his masterpiece a failure.
He’d worked so damn hard, and she was no better than when he started. A shitty hostess who couldn’t tell the difference between vintage wine and cheap plonk despite flying her to California for a tasting tour. Hell, she couldn’t even have kids. What good was she?
“Gem?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I miss my bike. Maybe, once I’m settled, I’ll get one again.”
“You’ll need to brush up on your riding.” He stood. “How aboutstarting today? Take my bike out. The forecast is clear. Ride up the coast. Give you a chance to get back on the saddle.”
“It’s been fifteen years. You donotwant me driving your Ducati.”
“It’s insured. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled. “Let’s have some fun.”
She wanted to keep protesting. Sheshouldkeep protesting.
Why?
Because…
Because Gemma Stanton was no longer the woman who went motorcycle riding in November? Not the sort who took day trips on a whim? Who let a hockey star refresh her riding skills on his very expensive bike?
Was shereallynot that woman anymore?
Oh hell, yes she was.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MASON
See? Mason still knew how to woo a woman. It was just a matter of adjusting the strategy to the lady in question, and he’d been out of practice. He had a hookup type, and that type liked his fantasy dinner date bundle. Or maybe they were his type because they liked his fantasy dinner date bundle, which kept things easy. No muss, no fuss.
Gemma was different. With her, he didn’t mind a little fuss. Instead of making him uneasy, he saw it as a chance to learn everything he could about grown-up Gemma Stanton.
He’d scored twice already this morning. First, with breakfast, which she’d clearly appreciated. Then the motorcycle lesson and ride, which was a stroke of fucking genius, if he did say so himself.
He’d dug up the second helmet he’d bought shortly after getting his first bike when, in his youth and naivete, he’d been convinced that women loved riding double on motorcycles. He’d suggested it a few times and gotten looks that screamed,Why would I ever want to do that?
In his storage berth, he’d even found an old sherpa-lined aviator-style leather jacket to keep Gemma warm. She’d laughed at the size of it, but she’d also taken it. Score three.
He’d driven Gemma to her apartment in his pickup so she couldget changed—he was damn well making sure she stayed warm today. Then back to his place, where he took the bike down the service elevator.
As they walked through the aboveground parking garage, his phone buzzed for the dozenth time in the past hour. He was about to flip it into Do Not Disturb, when he saw the first text.
Terrance:How did last night go?
Mason tensed. No, he wasn’t thinking about that. He was turning off his phone without reading—
“Everything okay?” Gemma asked, and he realized she could see his phone, held awkwardly as he wheeled his bike.
“Just my publicist,” he mumbled. “Asking about last night.”
“Ah.”
Mason started to pocket the phone.
“Should you answer him?”
