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.