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She stopped chopping with a sigh, pink tingeing her cheekbones. “At least you can still tell it’s a mango, right?”
Only because he’d passed the fruit out himself. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to identify the goopy yellow mass. Handling a knife was second nature for him. His Swiss Army knife had gotten him out of nearly as many jams as his combat knife. Reaching around her, he adjusted her grip. “Keep the bottom of the blade on the cutting board. Make sure the tip is up.”
She brightened even as she impaled her knife on her cutting board. “I get points for effort, right?”
Her hair smelled good, like strawberries and coconut beneath the added bonus layer of mangoes. She also had mango juice on her fingers, her front and her cheek. He tried not to think about all the other places she could have self-decorated.
Focus. “Think squares.”
“Squares.” She sounded skeptical. He moved closer until his front was plastered up against her sweet butt. She inhaled, but didn’t protest.
“First one big square, then four smaller squares, then sixteen.”
“Math isn’t my thing.”
“Just dice.”
He mentally consulted what he’d dubbed the boyfriend cheat sheet. He needed to compliment her in a meaningful way. Establish a sense of emotional intimacy. Honestly, he had no clue what that meant, although telling her that her hair smelled nice probably didn’t count. A piece of flying mango hit him on the shoulder as he opened his mouth to praise her on her mad chopping skills.
Emphasis on mad.
“Oops,” she said and grinned up at him. He knew a deliberate hit when he saw one. If she wanted to play dirty, he was happy to play with her.
“Can I take over?”
She dropped the knife—and leaned back against him.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and she blushed.
“Chopping’s hard work. You can be my mango boy anytime,” she said, surrendering the knife. If he was smart, he wouldn’t read anything into it. Apparently, though, he’d checked his brain when he’d accepted her as his mission, because he could feel a small answering smile tugging at his mouth.
After he’d chopped her mango—and, Jesus, he wished that was a euphemism for something else—he moved down the table, checking on his other students. Ashley had her mango chopped into precise cubes. “Show-off,” he muttered, and she stuck her tongue out at him. All good there. The honeymooning couple at the far end had progressed to feeding each other slices of fruit, and he resisted the urge to tell them to get a room. They had one. They just weren’t using it.
Yet.
Fantasy Island made a guy think about sex about fifty times a minute. It didn’t help that Maddie was covered in mango juice, making her his very own sweet sticky treat. Her crepe had achieved some strange mutant shape that defied the round shape of the pan. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly was no circle. It figured she’d make quirky crepes.
He peeled her crepe off the bottom of her pan and gave it a quick QA check. The top was raw and the bottom blackened. With a sigh, he substituted his crepe for hers.
She flashed him a dazzling smile. “Thank you. For the rescue,” she added after a brief pause. He didn’t know whether she meant yesterday on the hillside—or the mangoes.
“I still owe you makeup chocolate,” he said gruffly.
Her head whipped around, her ponytail slapping him in the mouth. “You meant that?”
“You bet.” He wiped a smudge of honey off the corner of her mouth. “I live to serve.”
That much was true. His family served. It was their tradition and he was proud to continue it. He’d do what he could do, push to be the best that he could be. Sure, he’d been the first to do it for Uncle Sam rather than Fish & Game or the Forest Service, but he figured service was like Christmas presents. It came in different sizes and shapes and sometimes you had no idea what you were getting, but it was all good. His dad had been a hotshot firefighter. His uncles were firefighters, too. He’d simply picked a different kind of fire, the kind that came with bad guys and bullets...and Maddie. Being her bodyguard detail was a whole different challenge.
She stared at him, evaluating something he couldn’t see. “Tomorrow?”
“It’s a date.”
“Like a date date?” Was that a hint of uncertainty in her eyes? He couldn’t tell, but that was nothing new. He wasn’t the kind of guy who dated much and being an active-duty SEAL made relationships near impossible. He never knew when he would be called up or for how long, which made any kind of connection or friendship outside his team difficult.
“Makeup chocolate,” he repeated, skirting the whole thorny issue of their relationship potential.
She gave him another assessing look and then grinned. “Okay. Sounds like fun, so why the hell not?”
He, on the other hand, could think of multiple reasons. He was staring down thirty—from the wrong side of the decade. Although he still had all his working parts, he was banged up something fierce. His knees were good; his trigger finger steady. In short, he was a fixer-upper project and she was no carpenter.
“Give me a time, big guy,” she said, leaning in and patting his chest. “So I can prepare properly.”
Yeah. He was definitely out of his league here. Maddie was a dating guru, unlike his sorry self. At the very least, his instant erection was ironclad proof that she’d mastered the fine art of flirting.
“Eight o’clock,” he muttered and beat a strategic retreat.
4 (#ulink_15c6a945-8835-566a-9991-193a54b3b204)
I’ve got a breakfast date this morning with Mr. Fantasy Fodder (and I should sign off because, yep, it’s three in the morning and the purple shadows under my eyes are not a sexy look). I’ll report back on whether or not FF lives up to the promise of his mighty fine butt! I’m taking bets on which approach I should take:
A) Point him in the direction of the Cheerios in my kitchen. They’re heart healthy—and probably not too stale.
B) Hop out of bed and throw together a quick Sunday brunch for two because the way to his heart is either through his stomach or his libido—and I’m the kind of gal who likes to have all the bases covered.
C) Offer to split the last package of Pop-Tarts with him. Naked. In bed.
—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle
STEP ONE IN becoming the perfect boyfriend? Cook Maddie a romantic breakfast and make her feel butterflies when she looked at him. No pressure. Since Maddie had agreed to a chocolate-chip pancake date, Mason had breakfast covered. He’d cook her a short stack, suss out her electronics and wipe any data that needed wiping. Easy-peasy and a guaranteed success, according to the magazine article Mason had checked out. Keep the doubts to yourself.
She looked like the girl next door, the queen of diamond rings, tulle and happily-ever-afters. So not his style. But until SEAL Team Sigma had ruled out the possibility of finding Santiago Marcos on the island, Mason would stick by her side. That was the only reason he was knocking on her door this morning, he told himself. Security reasons...not personal pursuits. SEALs shipped out. He’d known a few married men in the teams, but he wasn’t going to be a part-time husband, lover, father. His Mrs. was the military.
Maddie’s villa was the first in a row of picture-perfect bungalows dotting a white sand beach. He knew from the team’s orientation that she’d have a small kitchen because apparently some of the island’s guests liked to throw intimate dinner parties or have a private chef come in to whip up dinner. It was a different world from the loud, noisy family culinary sessions he’d grown up with. Today though, the secluded-elegance crap worked for him. Cooking in the resort’s immaculate industrial kitchen wouldn’t have let him get close to Maddie.
Although he had a staff passkey, he knocked. And then waited. Double-checked the bungalow number to make sure he was in the right place. Waited some more while he considered the possibility that there had already been a security breach and Santiago had gotten to Maddie. His gut tightened. There were no visible signs of forcible entry, and it was more likely she’d simply overslept. At this rate, she’d be eating breakfast for lunch. The third time he knocked, he finally heard footsteps.
When Maddie eventually cracked the door and peered out, he stared back because he couldn’t help himself. She was wearing a pink tank top and cotton sleep shorts that barely skimmed the top of her curvy thighs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a death-defying, messy bun. Red strands escaped around her face, already curling in the island’s humidity.
“The sun’s not up yet,” she mumbled, patting the mountain of curls into some semblance of order.
It was eight o’clock. And the only thing not up yet was Maddie. He was also fairly certain her eyes were shut, even if her mouth was open. She was a rumpled, adorable mess and she looked as if she’d rolled right out of bed—so, naturally, he wanted to roll her right back in.
“Pancakes.” He held up his box of ingredients.
“Right.” She leaned against the door as if she planned on going back to sleep right there. Time for a new strategy. He set the box down on the ground, reached in and gently lifted her out of the way so he could open the door. Then he nudged the box inside with his foot, stepped in and closed the door behind him.
“Wow.” She blinked at him as if he’d managed to surprise her. He only hoped it was in a good way. “Way to make a girl feel good about her weight.”
He ran his eyes over her. She looked fantastic. Given his overabundance of sisters, however, he knew better than to touch that particular statement. There was absolutely, positively no crowd-pleasing answer. Instead, he gave her a slow smile. The corners of her mouth turned up in response.
“You’re not a morning person.” He picked up his box.
“I’m at my best at night.” She turned and padded away, waving a hand toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”
Her sleep shorts were riding up her gorgeous ass. He wanted to squeeze and cup, nip that sweet, soft curve. And she wanted breakfast. He kicked off his shoes at the door and did a quick check of the room. Bingo. She’d left her laptop in its case on the coffee table. Snagging it, he stepped back to the door, opened it and signaled. Levi appeared on the path, pushing a housekeeping cart.
Thirty seconds elapsed. Levi passed him a stack of towels and a laptop; Mason handed over Maddie’s laptop and performed a little case switcheroo. “Time?”
“I’m making breakfast. You should have at least an hour.”
“Aww...how domestic.” Levi tucked Maddie’s laptop into the housekeeping cart, just hotel staff delivering towels. “I’ll have this back in twenty, unless our girl actually practices password security. In which case, give me thirty.”
“Laptop goes on the coffee table facing the front door. Walk it in, go straight. You can’t miss it.”
“Got it.” Levi nodded and stepped off the porch. Mason put the decoy laptop back on the coffee table and made for the kitchen. Coffee was his next priority. Black for him. Since she seemed to like sweet stuff, he laced hers with dulce de leche and then added chocolate sprinkles and whipped cream.
When she padded back into the kitchen five minutes later, he smelled toothpaste, but she hadn’t bothered to get dressed. Instead, she’d tossed a kimono over her pajamas. Cheerful, loud red flowers on something that was sheer and turquoise and... Jesus. He could see her sun-kissed skin through the fabric.
Remember the magazine strategy.
Ogling her in her own kitchen wasn’t endearing. It was creepy. Unfortunately, the peekaboo glimpses of her delectable curves drove the magazine quiz straight out of his head. Ten steps to success. It was a nice plan. Simple. Easy to implement. Instead of working on “forging an intimate connection,” however, he nearly swallowed his tongue at the little whimper of pleasure she made when she took her first sip of coffee.
“God. That’s so good.” Her fingers stroked the side of the coffee mug. Which was white ceramic and not his dick, so the bolt of heat that shot straight to his groin was completely unexplainable. She didn’t stop the tiny orgasmic sounds as she drained his coffee and, who knew—his dick could, in fact, get harder.
He stepped closer to the stove. Pancakes, not sex. He needed to remember the mission. Which was not “get Mason laid,” no matter what certain iron-like parts of his body suggested.
He’d mixed the batter before coming, so it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to make her breakfast. He turned on the stove, which heated up far more slowly than he had. He brushed a pan with butter, turned to grab the batter and slammed into her. So not the romantic plan. Involuntarily, his hands shot straight to her hips to steady her and his fingers brushed the top of her ass in an all-around, worst-ever Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
“Whoops,” she said, flushing. She didn’t take a step backward, though. He couldn’t help but notice that. No, she stayed plastered thigh to thigh and front to front with him. And she had a spectacular front.
“You okay?” No one got the drop on him, but this one woman was apparently the exception.
“Can I help?” Avoiding his eyes, she reached around him and started rummaging through his box. Any semblance of order vanished at approximately the same speed her shorts rode up her curvy ass. The kimono did nothing to shield it from his gaze, and, boy, was he enjoying looking. That had to be why he didn’t mind the mess. That, and the fact that Maddie could break him down faster than he could an M4.
Without waiting for his answer—which was, he realized, typical—she pulled herself up on the counter, parked her sweet butt next to his gear and crossed her legs. She waved a spatula she’d found in the box.
“What a girl could do with this,” she said, slapping the plastic against her palm. His brain stuttered to a halt while his body went into autopilot pouring batter onto the griddle. Had she really gone there?
She grinned and held out the spatula. When he took it, her fingers slid over his. Lingered. She was definitely trouble.
“Is that a dare?” Breakfast. Compliments. Long walks on the beach. A few slow, wet kisses. And then, according to the magazine master plan, he got to have sex with her. Except that he had to substitute screwing with her electronics for sleeping with Maddie, he reminded himself. Clearly, he had his priorities skewed and should have focused on bringing the kink.
Equally clearly, she planned on skipping straight to the climax, so to speak. Or she was just messing with him. Either seemed like a possibility. The wicked gleam in her eyes had him voting for option B.
“Do you want it to be?” She returned her attention to the contents of the box. Unfortunately for her curiosity, he’d left the BDSM arsenal in the hotel gift shop.
“You don’t want to play games with me, sweetheart.”
She shrugged. “Don’t be so sure of that.”
“I always win.” Even before BUD/S training, he’d learned the value of winning. Older sisters were merciless when triumphant.
“Don’t be so sure of that, either.” She grinned cheekily at him. “Your pancakes are bubbling. Even I know that means it’s time to flip.”
Shit. He rescued the pancakes, turning them over and adding the chocolate chips, before setting out a plate.
She watched him work, swinging a bare foot. She pouted. “You’re not eating with me? Because it’s just wrong to ignore chocolate chips.”
Silently he added a second plate to the counter. Guess he could be tempted after all.
* * *
MAYBE SHE COULD blame Fantasy Island. Maybe the place simply had sex in the air, like perfume at the mall. Or maybe Maddie was just lonely. That last option wasn’t her favorite, but she had to admit the possibility. Her recent dating history consisted of long stretches of drought peppered with spectacular failures. Since working from home on her blog ruled out a workplace romance, she’d had to rely on the guys she met at weekend weddings. While she found a guy in a tux as hot as the next woman did, she’d also discovered that a tux was a version of dating wallpaper. The sexy suit covered up a wealth of issues. She didn’t need another DIY fixer-upper man.
Been there, done that.
A year ago, she’d naively thought her then boyfriend had been on the proposal train. Unfortunately, the special dinner she’d anticipated all week had turned out to be the breakup dinner. He’d picked up the check, though, after explaining that he’d accepted a work transfer to the other side of the country—and that he thought they should take a break while he “got settled.” She’d ordered both the lobster and the Kir Royal cocktail. Three times. The rest of the night had been a mindless blur, although she’d apparently drunk texted her sisters the sorry details of her sex life. Twelve months later, she still hadn’t lived those texts down.
Hot vacation sex with Mason might seem like the best of ideas, but it could all too easily end like her last relationship. Being the punch line in a bad joke wasn’t funny. At all. She had an adjective for every finger on her hand for wrestling Mason into bed: risky, impulsive and...tingly. While she’d enjoyed the casual postwedding hookup, Mason was dangerous to her peace of mind. Once might not be enough with him.
Maybe it was all the weddings. Thirteen of them in eighteen months. Once upon a time, weddings had been her favorite way to spend a Saturday, but she was tired of standing on the sidelines. Tired of watching other people hook up and live out their fantasies. She didn’t need a groom of her own, but a man? Temporarily? That worked for her. Where was the harm in borrowing Mason for the rest of her vacation? The hunk definitely brought out her inner tease.
Bad Maddie.
He was big and built, powerful shoulders flexing beneath his white T-shirt. She had no idea how he stayed so pristine in the kitchen. There wasn’t a smear of flour or chocolate on him anywhere she could see. It was like her own personal challenge to see if she could crack his stoic surface and mess him up. Only in the best possible ways, she thought virtuously. Nothing mean or petty. Just...sexy.
God, was he ever sexy.
And that was before he said the magic words. “Strawberries or whipped cream?” The smile quirking the corner of his mouth was downright naughty. “Or both?”
“You have to ask?” Because, seriously, was there more than one possible answer?
“A vote for both.” With a flourish, he spread strawberries over the topmost pancakes and followed with whipped cream, and not the kind from the aerosol bottle. Nope. He had a fancy stainless-steel number that promised all sorts of dairy goodness. There was definitely something to be said for a man who cooked. He picked up the two plates and nodded his head toward the small table. “Sit down.”
Fresh whipped cream was a motivator. She hopped off the counter and sat at the table.
He wasn’t much of a talker. He didn’t open up and tell her all about himself, or even share the usual dating details like favorite movies, favorite songs or favorite sexual positions. Instead, he sat there and listened. She told herself that wasn’t a turn-on, but really...yeah. It was.
“What made you decide to blog about weddings?”
“I was laid off. I knew how to type.” She wiggled her French-manicured fingers at him. “And I had a stack of wedding invitations as high as Bill Mountain.”
“A fresh start.” He nodded grimly, as if he understood, although she had to wonder what he’d ever failed at. He seemed pretty darn perfect to her.
She and failure, on the other hand, were BFFs. She’d been an executive assistant before the software start-up folded. No Silicon Valley billionaire had crossed her path, although she’d had a few conference room fantasies to go with a social life that consisted of online dating, dating apps and friends of friends. She gave good first dates, but guys didn’t call back. Or email back, text back or IM her back, and it was partly her fault. She knew what she wanted in a man and she knew she had things to offer. He’d be honest and reliable and, when she was around him, she’d feel safe enough to be herself. He’d like her first, and then he’d love her. In exchange for all of himself, she’d offer up all she had. She definitely wouldn’t have sex just because or to cross the next step off in some dating checklist. But even if she was looking for Mr. Right, she’d also settle for an attractive Mr. Right Now as long as he came with an orgasm for two.
“Bills are an excellent motivator,” she admitted softly.
