“All right then.” He clapped Mason on the back. “Have a good trip.”
“Thanks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GEMMA
Gemma had spent the last three days in a strange state between “hockey with Mason” and “trip with Mason.” The most significant part of that was the lack of, well, Mason. He wasn’t showing up on her doorstep, wasn’t texting in the middle of the night, wasn’t pestering her for coffee or fake dates. Instead of enjoying the reprieve, she felt this strange sense that she was marking time, waiting.
Mason did text her a few times a day, just checking in. He was obviously busy. Which was fine. Just… disappointing.
Ava had also been delighted to share Gemma’s sales figures. They were “better than expected,” which would mean more if their expectations had been higher.
Now she just had to finish her second book.
Gemma swung to happier thoughts. Mason would be back tomorrow, and they’d leave for their getaway. She’d decided on a ski chalet. While she wasn’t sure she’d do any actual skiing, November in Vancouver always made her long for real winter, the way other Canadians might long for summer. She wanted a cozy cabin with a roaring fire and snow.
When her phone rang, she hoped it was finally the vacationplanner—she still hadn’t heard from them. She rolled over in bed, saw that it was a video call, and grinned. That was even better. She hit the Accept button and…
The face filling her screen was handsome. Very handsome, she’d always had to give him that much. A chiseled jaw, perfectly shaven, light brown hair styled just so. While she couldn’t see the rest of him, she knew it from memory. Average height. Expensive suit on a trim body.
“Gemma,” Alan said.
She resisted the urge to run a hand through her hair and maybe hit a blurring filter. Then she realized she hadn’t considered either when she presumed it was Mason. That was significant.
“Alan,” she said. “To what do I owe—”
“What is this?” He waved a paper, which was presumably the reason for being on video.
“You’ll need to stop waving it so I can see it,” she said.
“It’s a cease and desist.”
Her sleepy brain still struggled to focus. Those words sounded vaguely familiar, but where…
“From Mason Moretti,” he said, shoving the page into the camera. “He’s ordering me to stop being his fan.”
Gemma burst out laughing.
Alan glared. “Did you send this?”
“Uh, no. That’s all Mason. I told him you were a big fan, and he joked about ordering you to stop. Also, you are never getting an autograph. Just so you know.”
“I suppose you think this is funny.”
“Ignore it,” she said. “Obviously, it’s not legally binding. Now I’m going to hang up—”
“What did you do to your hair?”
Gemma tensed. Alan had always considered her hair her worst feature. In the early years, she’d had it blown out at his insistence. Eventually, she said, “Screw that,” and wore it natural, curly and shoulder length. Whenever they’d had a social engagement, he’d tell her to “do something with that” as if she was leaving the house with a small animal on her head.
This was how he’d take his revenge for the letter. Insult her hair. Oh, how far the mighty had fallen, reduced to snide comments about grooming.
“It looks different,” he said. “It looksgood. You’ve done something.” There was a weird accusation in those words, as if after all those years of him wanting her to “fix” her hair, she’d finally done it after their divorce, just to spite him.
Gemma shook her head, making her curls bounce. “Nope. This is my just-woke-up look, Alan. Always has been.”
“It looks good.” A grudging note edged with anger, and then she got it. This had nothing to do with her hair and everything to do with Mason Moretti wanting his ex and Alan trying to figure out why.
