Punching his teammate seemed like the more appealing option at the moment. Instead, he finished his own set of reps, welcoming the burn in his arm muscles. “B,” he gritted out.
Levi whistled. “Good for you.”
“She thinks I’m boyfriend material.”
Levi grinned at him. “And that’s a problem? I thought you wanted to get to know her.”
“She thinks I’m a chef.”
Levi shrugged and pushed up. “So? You can cook. It’s not false advertising.”
Which was splitting hairs. “But I’m not here on Fantasy Island to cook.”
“So she gets a side of bonus SEAL. I’m still not seeing the problem.”
“I took her laptop,” he said through clenched teeth. “There are things I’m not telling her. How do you think she’d feel about that? How would anyone feel?”
Levi sighed. “This would be so much easier if you didn’t have a moral compass.”
Right. “Not helpful.”
“Do you like her?”
Mason examined his arm and the pale words painted onto his skin. He could feel the grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I do.”
“So get to know her. See where this goes. Maybe it’s just a hookup.”
“You think she’s using me for sex?”
“Would you be complaining? It’s Fantasy Island. Not Uptight Island, Vestal Virgin Island or Not Tonight Dear Island.”
“That was—”
“Crass?” Levi switched arms. “Absolutely. But it’s also true. See what she wants. Maybe she just wants to explore her options with you, have a good time. In which case, great. The two of you can go enjoy each other and then, when our time’s up, you can leave with a clear conscience. But if there’s more to it than that and you decide you want to keep seeing her, you’ll figure out the logistics later.”
“That plan sucks.”
“True,” Levi acknowledged. “But we both know you’re going with it anyhow. Stick with the script and you’ll be fine.”
“You really think a lousy quiz is going to turn me into the perfect boyfriend?”
Not that he wasn’t willing to give it a shot for Maddie, but he was also a realist. He was career military and a SEAL. He was more than a little rough around the edges, and he definitely wasn’t domesticated, even if he could cook.
Levi just grinned. “At least you’ll get sex out of it, right?”
To hell with PT and push-ups. He launched himself at Levi again. The funny thing was that, in trying to follow the magazine script about being the perfect boyfriend, he was happier than he’d ever been. He liked Maddie. She was funny and brave and bold as hell—and that was before he’d managed to get her into bed. He had no doubts whatsoever that she’d rock his world there, too. But all that sass came with a side of vulnerability. She hid it well, but it was there, and he didn’t plan on being the asshole who hurt her more. Levi, on the other hand, was fair game.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Levi twisted, reversing the hold. “You’re fixated on kissing. Do it more. Talk about it less.”
“Be respectful,” he growled, and followed up the order with a second takedown. Levi hit the sand hard.
Maddie was trying to do a job, and he respected that. After all, he was here on a workcation as well, courtesy of Uncle Sam. A lot of other SEALs would have tried to score with her. She was a stunning woman, downright beautiful, her lush curves a whole lot of sexy. Holding back was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Got it.” Levi elbowed him. “But I still recommend more kissing.”
Yeah. He wanted more kissing, too, but he was also old enough to know that sometimes making out wasn’t the answer.
Like Maddie, his ex-wife had been fun and the life of the party. He didn’t really know what he was supposed to have done differently. They’d gotten married; he’d shipped out. Maybe his mistake had been believing the paycheck and long-distance love would be enough. Maybe expecting her to wait was unrealistic. But he’d said the words in front of her family preacher and he’d meant them. There was nothing wrong with laughter and a good time. He was all for that. He just didn’t have any practice at what came after the “I dos” and was batting zero for one in the department of happily-ever-after. Married at eighteen. Divorced at twenty. His kissing experience didn’t count for shit.
8