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.
He laughed. "Yeah. Electricity and running water are kind of addictive."
She'd marked the date on her calendar when she'd earned enough from affiliate marketing to pay her rent. Forget celebrating dating anniversaries-because that had been a day to remember.
"Why weddings?" he continued. "Other than a pressing need to keep the lights on."
"You don't think I'm a personal expert?"
He gave her another lazy grin. "Are you admitting to being a serial bride?"
"I was a bona fide expert. I'd been to a dozen in five months because my college friends paired off like randy rabbits. I'd also worn out my copy of Wedding Crashers and thought, ‘I could do that.' One big party with free food and bad dresses, right? Then I found out that I actually like weddings. I like the food, the flowers, the really bad and over-the-top dresses. And, yes, I like the look the groom gets on his face when he sees his bride walking up the aisle toward him." She paused. "Does that scare you?"
He finished his last pancake and stole a bite of hers. "Not particularly. Is this where your other dates run screaming for the exit?"
"Honestly? Yeah." She sighed. Blogging about weddings was like having the best-ever paper-dolls set, where she could try on all the clothes and the locations for herself, but without committing. Guys, however, seemed to assume she had to score a ring of her own ASAP. At the very least, they expected an endless series of boring Saturdays dressed up in a tuxedo. And while she wanted to find The One and get hitched, it didn't have to happen this week, this month or even this year. Just...sometime. Sometime would be good.
"Who knew?" He'd eaten with neat efficiency, dividing each pancake into even sections. Finished, he lined up his knife and fork on the edge of the plate with military precision.
She, on the other hand, had only a passing familiarity with the word neat. It had zero practical applications to her everyday life. She pointed a fork at him. "Finish your thought."
"That someone could make a living writing about weddings on the internet."
"Not a good living," she muttered. "This Fantasy Island gig is my shot at serious advertising revenue. If I do a good job here, other clients should follow. Hopefully before the electric company turns off my power."
He laughed. "So you're the Pied Piper of the blogosphere."
"Except the Pied Paper was kind of creepy-and he had thousands of rats following him." She, on the other hand, had an entourage of one. "You're a good listener." Whoops. The words had come out more accusation than not.
He shrugged. "I have sisters."
And she'd bet they worshipped him. The twinkle in his eyes said the feeling was mutual. "How many?"
"Too many?" A smile tugged at his gorgeous mouth as he relaxed, his arms stretched out over the back of the bench. His bare feet brushed against hers. He was in her space.
And she liked it.
"Four," he continued. "I have four sisters. A mother. Three aunties and three female cousins. I get plenty of practice listening."
She could just imagine. "No wonder you're not much of a talker."
"Pick a topic."
She eyed him suspiciously. "You're willing to make a blanket commitment to talking about anything?"
"You're right. That could get me in trouble." He pushed to his feet. Oh, yum. All smooth male power. "I should clean up."
No. He should get really, really dirty.
"I have a few ideas." Reaching out, she hooked a finger in the hem of his T-shirt.
"Of where to start?" Now he looked amused. Or maybe that was the strawberry smear she'd just deposited on his shirt. Switching hands, she stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. He made a hoarse sound as if he felt the pull of her mouth in interesting places.
Definitely not interested in letting go. "Are you cursing?"
"I'm cleaning," he said firmly, grabbing her plate as if she didn't have a stranglehold on his shirt.
She tugged a little harder. Come closer. "You need one of those maid's aprons."
"You see me in white-and-black frills? Besides, I think that might count as sexual harassment." He set the plates down and freed his shirt. She couldn't help but notice, however, that he didn't step back.
"Are you complaining?" Because if he was, she could take the hint.
He shook his head, gave her a mock-stern look. "I should."
"You have whipped cream on your mouth." Since he was so conveniently close...she tucked her fingers in the waistband of his pants and pulled. No need for words-his new position put him almost on eye level with her.
"Bossy," he said with another one of his slow, sexy smiles. And then, "Prove it."
She loved a good dare.
"Right here." She scooped up whipped cream from her plate and pressed a fingertip against the corner of his mouth. "I'll help you with it."
Mason's eyes darkened and he slammed his hands down on either side of her legs, leaning in. His shoulders pressed her thighs wide and she fought the urge to drape them over his shoulders and tell him to dive on in, but she didn't want to put him off. She knew what she liked and she wasn't afraid to ask for it, but some guys were scared off by that. It was their loss, but if Mason was a card-carrying member of the Men With Small Penises Club, their pancake-eating fun would be over.