“I know who you are.” Or mostly. The last name was new information.
Belatedly, she shoved her hand into his. Good Lord, the man had her acting as though she was fifteen. Not that she’d mind having her fifteen-year-old body back, but that year in high school had been the Year of Brody. Brody had sat next to her in her chemistry class, his mere presence driving textbooks straight out of her mind and reducing her to a stammering, drooling idiot. He’d made her tingle and flush, transforming chemistry class into both her favorite and her worst period of the day.
Mason Black was even more devastating. And, like her chemistry crush, she wasn’t entirely positive he knew her name. After all, he’d just introduced himself to her as if they were total strangers and she hadn’t ogled his body while he taught Fantasy Island’s guests to make ceviche. Which she totally had.
She was also still holding his hand.
Oops. Letting go, she took a step back.
“I’m Maddie Holmes.”
“Uh-huh.” He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology.”
She leaned toward him before she could stop herself. “Okay.”
Did she still sound breathless? Maybe she could blame her asthma. He examined the ground and her gaze followed his. Right. Her camera...and her breakfast. Her breakfast was beyond repair—even she wasn’t going to eat a chocolate croissant that had bounced off Hot Chef’s chest and hit the jungle floor—but her camera was a different story. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands and then handed it to her.
“The first apology is for scaring you. It wasn’t intentional.” His lips curved up in a grin. “And the second apology is for your camera. And your croissant.” She liked the slow way he smiled at her. It made her feel all melty, like the insides of her croissant.
“It was chocolate,” she pointed out. “One apology may not be sufficient.”
“Call me crazy, but aren’t cameras a bit more expensive than breakfast pastries?”
“I have more than one camera,” she explained. “But at the moment, I’m completely croissant-less.”
“I make a mean chocolate-chip pancake,” he offered, surprising her. With that brawny body, she’d assumed he was an oat bran and protein powder kind of guy. “I could make you a replacement.”
Somehow, she didn’t think his pancakes would take second place. Nope. Just like his smile, she had a bad feeling his pancakes would be addictive. He was a big, scary-looking guy offering homemade breakfast. Talk about checking all the right boxes.
“You cook,” she blurted out when the silence stretched on too long, and then wanted to smack herself. Duh. Obviously, he cooked. He was a chef at the resort, even if he wore camo pants, a black T-shirt and combat boots, and looked more like a badass than a chef.
“Yeah,” he agreed, rocking back on his heels to survey her, presumably for further damage. “I do. Really well, although I’m hearing a no on my offer.”
Only because she was biting her lip. She wanted to scream “yes, please” and not just for his pancakes.
“That’s not what chefs wear.” She flicked a finger up and down, indicating his clothes.
He grinned. “I’m not in the kitchen right now, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be out of uniform.”
And now she was thinking about him naked.
“I’m playing paintball with some of the guys,” he continued.
“At dawn?”
He shrugged. “You all like to eat. I have a job to do most of the time.”
“You don’t have any paint on your shirt.” Although if his alleged teammates had hit him on the butt, she’d be happy to check out that portion of his anatomy, too.