“A career writing assholes, because if you think readers will expect that after one book, it’ll be worse after two.”
Here was the hard truth she’d been dodging. The truth that Daphne had gently been trying to convey. One book was a precedent. Two was a pattern.
“Let’s talk about Lilias’s story,” he said. “Her not-dead bodywashed out to sea, where it was found by some guy out on a boat. He rescues her.”
Gemma shook her head. “Argyle rescued Edin inFling. That’d be repetitive. And I’m not sure I want to establish being rescued by a man as sexy.”
“Rescues are sexy no matter who’s doing the rescuing. But okay. Lilias washes up onshore, and she would have been just fine, thank you very much, but along comes this grumpy laird who insists on helping her, even when she doesn’t need it and he’s not exactly gracious about it. But he does because he’s a genuinely good guy even when that is inconvenient.”
Gemma chewed her lip as her thoughts raced, riffing on what Mason said, imagining Lilias as the heroine and a fake asshole as a hero. She liked fake assholes—grumpy guys who were all hard edges with cinnamon-roll centers.
Mason pressed. “You mentioned that your sister-in-law is a writer. Ask her. Maybe she has some insight into what would happen if you sent the publisher something else.”
“I’d have to pitch it to them. And they might say no.”
“But you like this idea better?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He rose. “Now write the outline or whatever for that. I’ll be in the kitchen. Shout if you need more brainstorming. Or more rum.”
“I will. Thanks.”
As he padded away, she turned to admire the view, and found herself wishing, for the hundredth time this trip, that it wasonlya view. A smoking hot body attached to a guy who otherwise did nothing for her. Pure eye candy.
Mason Moretti felt like a path untaken. A moment when her life could have gone very differently.
But was that true? What would it have been like back then, to be with an up-and-coming hockey star? All focus would have been on his future, leaving her right where she’d been with Alan, except instead of being the corporate wife, she’d have been the pro athlete wife, left behind to play house while he traveled, with endless women looking to warm him up after a night on the ice.
No, what she saw wasn’t a path untaken. It was the tease of a different door openingnow, to a hockey star on the cusp of retirement, recognizing that his life is finally big enough to include someone else.
It was a tease, though, because that wasn’t on offer.
She shook off the pang of something like grief and returned to her laptop. Out of habit, she opened her email for a distraction, before forgetting there was no Wi-Fi or cell service here. Yet she apparently did have a few unread messages that came in before she and Mason had arrived.
She skimmed the list. Daphne had sent a writing pep talk. An old friend had gotten in touch to say she’d read the book. Ava had gushed over the airport-departure pics. All good. None requiring a response—
Her gaze stopped on an email from Alan.
Gemma,
Saw the pics of you going on holiday with the Mace. I’m happy for you, but like Isaid, I’m worried about you, too. Maybe you know the real reason he whisked you off on a getaway. Maybe you’re in on the PR stunt. But I don’t think you are, and I can’t stand to see him making a fool of you.
You know about Denny Fowler, right? If not, look it up.
Mason took you away because Denny will be back for the next game. Everyone wants to talk to the Mace, see how he feels about it. But he’s not there, is he? He’s on a romantic getaway with his new girlfriend, and his publicist is pumping out photos to divert attention from that.
He’s using you, Gemma.
The Mace is a great hockey player. But he’s a shit human being, and you deserve better.
Alan
MASON
Gemma had been tense and quiet after taking a post-writing walk alone, but once the food came and the conversation flowed, she’d seemed to unwind. He’d made all her favorites from her Nonna Jean orders—spring-pea risotto and deep-fried artichoke for appetizersand beef-stuffed cabbage rolls and a fried escarole salad for the main course—and she’d eaten with gusto. When they finished, she started gathering plates.
“Uh-uh.” He plucked both wineglasses from her hands. “Go write.”
