He smiled, to no one in particular, sipped his champagne, and settled in.
GEMMA
Thank God for loud plane engines. The constant roar meant Mason didn’t seem to expect her to talk, and she was able to pretend she didn’t hear him when he tried. That—plus the champagne—was the only way she was getting through this flight.
The farther south the plane went, the more obvious it became that they weren’t going anyplace with snow. He’d assumed she wanted a beach vacation. Because that’s what every woman wants in winter, isn’t it? To lie on the beach, sip daiquiris, and work on her tan.
Just like every woman dreamed of exclusive restaurants and swooned over guys who sent them a handful of gift cards to “pamper” themselves.
Would Mason make the same mistake with male friends? Presume they all liked hockey, getting plastered on Saturday nights, and eating takeout because they couldn’t cook? Stereotypical “guy” stuff that Mason himself matched only on the first count.
When the pilot’s voice crackled on the speaker, telling them to prepare for landing, she looked down to see the distant blue of crystal clear water, the glowing white of sandy beaches, and the rich green of waving palms. She allowed herself one final exhale of disappointment before she shifted her expectations and declared that this was still better than Vancouver in November.
She’d survive. She’d write, and she’d walk in the sand and wade in the warm water, and she’d enjoy herself, damn it.
MASON
Huh. He’d figured Gemma would pick someplace more… adventurous. Skiing in the Alps. A villa in rural Italy. A penthouse in Paris. Not that there was anything wrong with beaches. This was exactly the sort of place he came on his bye week, gathering a bunch of buddies and heading south in search of the sun.
A week of forbidden excess mid-season. Eat too much. Drink too much. Fool around too much. Then get your ass back to Vancouver a couple of days early to work it all off in the gym and spa.
This wasn’t about him, though. It was about Gemma, and if this was what she’d chosen, it just proved he needed to work harder on getting to know her.
When they’d gotten into the vehicle, the driver had assured them the windows were bulletproof, which Mason figured was a joke, but they’d been in the car nearly an hour and hadn’t caught more than glimpses of locals, as if they were on some extended route that actively avoided them. Finally, they reached a huge gate attached to a huge fence… with armed guards.
“Why is there a fence?” Gemma asked, rolling down the divider.
“For your protection, miss,” the driver said.
“The entire resort is fenced?”
“Yes, miss.”
“And guarded?”
The man smiled back at her. “Yes, miss. You do not need to worry. This is safe. Very safe. Everything you need will be inside here. Your own little slice of paradise.”
The car rolled through the gates, which closed behind them with a clang.
This was…
Shit. Mason hated to judge, but this made him really uncomfortable.
“No,” Gemma said, her voice almost a growl. “I am not staying here.”
She turned to Mason. “I am not staying in a place where rich vacationers enjoy the best beaches behind an armed fence guarding them from thelocals.”
“Agreed,” Mason said.
“You… agree?”
“This is definitely not my vibe. I’m guessing the planners didn’t run the venue past you.” He took out his phone. “Let me make a call and see what I can do.”
He was searching for the number when he noticed Gemma staring at him.
“I… didn’t pick this, Mason.”
“I know. That’s the problem. You told them what you wanted, and they were supposed to run all the specifics past you.”
