Mr. Fantasy Fodder continues to live up to his name. I’m a very happy camper, although he still seems reluctant to get naked with me. Is there some kind of secret vacation hookup etiquette that I need to learn? Or does he just think I’m not That Kind of Girl? Because, for him, I totally could be, ladies. Fantasy Island has a secret that I’m about to out for you all. The cocktail menu? Isn’t just about getting your drunk on. All those sexy, sexy names are bedroom suggestions. If I tell FF to order me a Long Slow Screw Against the Wall, he’s supposed to take the hint and take me up against the wall.
—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle
AFTER A DAY spent working on her blog, Maddie felt pleasantly virtuous when Mason texted her. Not that the brief You busy? was fantasy fodder. Nope. The fantasy was what had happened the day before yesterday, and although waking him up at the lookout point yesterday had definitely started off on the wrong foot, the end results hadn’t been bad, either.
Since she’d just wrapped things up, she’d texted back, Is that an offer?
Her phone vibrated seconds later.
Thought I’d give you a chance to apologize.
Uh-huh. Fingers flying, she mounted her defense.
For what? I’ve been a good girl.
He responded with a photo of his forearm. Whoops. She’d forgotten about her arts-and-crafts hoax. He might have a point about the need to atone.
Not that she’d tell him that—or that she’d been dying to see him again. After she’d accidentally on purpose woken him up at the lookout point, he’d walked her back to her bungalow, but he hadn’t come in. Hadn’t so much as given her a kiss goodbye. Which, okay, had kind of sucked. She’d known he had to work—after all, she did, too—but she’d been disappointed about the brush-off and had been secretly hoping he could carve out some time for them. However, she’d exercised amazing self-control and had resisted chasing him down. His text had been her reward.
When he knocked on her front door, Maddie opened it. Her heart fluttered as she slowly drank him in. The man had the best taste in shirts. Today he wore a faded navy blue T-shirt that hugged his taut chest and exposed his muscular forearms, along with blue jeans that were white around the seams and a pair of rugged black boots. God. She loved boots on a man. She doubted he’d picked out his clothes with her fantasies in mind, but just the sight of him, rumpled and strong and a little battered around the edges? Yeah. That sight got her going.
“Listen, uh, about the tattoo. If you want it removed—”
Not that she actually had any idea how to fix the letters she’d finger painted onto his arm, but the offer had to count for something, right?
Mason cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. We have better things to do.” He held up a wicker basket as though it was Exhibit A.
“Picnic?” She eyed the sky doubtfully. “It’s dark. Don’t picnics require daylight?”
He shrugged. “Since when do you follow all the rules?”
She knew she had a reputation for winging it, but she wasn’t sure the weather had gotten that particular memo, because the sky was overcast. She didn’t mind getting wet in a swimsuit, but eating in the rain seemed damper than necessary.
“It’s going to storm,” she pointed out, just in case he hadn’t noticed the clouds forming overhead.
He produced an umbrella. “Voilà.”
“Wow. He brings food and he speaks French.”
He rattled off a few phrases. The words sure sounded good, but he could have been reading her the French tax code for all she knew. “What did you say?”
His eyes warmed, getting that gleam she liked so much. The look that made her heat up, her girl parts jump up and down and go “Pick me!”
“Dirty French words I learned from a sailor. In alphabetical order.”
“God. That’s fabulous. Tell me more.”
She stepped outside, shoving her feet into her sandals. Since “you busy?” hadn’t spelled out the date-night possibilities, she’d opted for wearing a yellow-and-white-checkered sundress. The straps were tiny scraps of lace, more like a really nice picture frame for her boobs. She liked the way the full skirt felt swishing around her thighs, like a Southern belle.
“You look gorgeous,” he said, his voice husky. Mission accomplished. He clearly liked her dress, too. Maybe, if she was lucky, he’d like her out of the dress even better. Smiling, she followed him.
He’d picked out the perfect spot for a picnic on the beach. Palm trees surrounding them, the surf beating gently on the shore and the moon shining over the water.