Uh-huh. Levi swooped before Ashley could take defensive action, leaning her backward in a dramatic clinch. That kiss wasn’t going to end well for Levi.
“Put me down.” Maddie batted at Mason’s shoulders, clearly determined to capture this particular angle up close. Given the way sparks usually flew between Levi and Ashley, she was right to hurry. Ashley would just as soon kill Levi as kiss him.
He swung her down and she headed straight for the “newlyweds,” camera shutter clicking. He hoped she’d gotten her shots, because Ashley flipped Levi, landing the guy on his back in the sand. Levi grinned up at his “bride,” clearly not bothered by his new position.
“My wife’s into the rough stuff,” he said to no one in particular.
“Funny,” Ashley retorted, glowering down at him. Mason figured she was seconds away from kicking sand in Levi’s face. Her “groom” must have come to the same conclusion, because he rolled, coming to his feet and throwing an arm around her.
“Smile for the camera, sunshine.”
Ashley glared at Maddie, shrugging off Levi’s hold. “Are we done here? Because I’m about to pull a Henry the Eighth and off my spouse.”
Levi slouched off, grumbling. Somehow, he and Ashley couldn’t stop quarreling and pushing each other’s buttons. If Ashley continued to work with SEAL Team Sigma, they’d have to find a way to work it out. Maddie waved them off, then ambled over to a palm tree. She pulled herself up onto the trunk and started flipping through her photos. She looked windblown and happy. Sexy as hell. So, yeah, of course he had to go watch over her shoulder. Lean into her a little, so he could feel the warmth of her silky smooth leg pressing into his side. Breathe in her soft floral scent. She rested an arm on his shoulder, as though she just accepted his presence. They fit together in a way he couldn’t begin to explain.
She’d captured the expression on Levi’s face perfectly. Hooyah. That SEAL was in trouble and didn’t know it. Not that he was one to talk. The evening breeze played with the hem of Maddie’s pretty sundress. The dress was made out of some kind of light, airy stuff. Now that he didn’t have her thighs squeezing his head, he noticed that it was cream with polka dots. Better yet, she’d apparently opted to wear a red bra, the crimson color playing peekaboo with the thin fabric. Jesus. Did her panties match?
He needed a distraction stat. “I’ve discovered your secret. You have wedding fantasies.”
She shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Like I told you before, I like weddings.”
Yeah. The whole blog thing made that clear. She leaned into him, watching his face. He wished he knew what she saw. “I could make you like them, too.”
He snorted. “Small chance of that. I’m a guy. I’ve got genetic immunity.”
“Mmm.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “What about the garter dance? That’s a wedding staple.”
He nearly asked if she was offering to play show-and-tell. He and Bethany had run off for a Vegas wedding quickie, which meant certain parts of that weekend were a blur. He was pretty certain his bride had had one of those ruffly blue satin things tied around her upper thigh, but he’d also been eighteen and in a rush. A rush to get married, to ship out, to get busy living. He hadn’t understood the appeal of slowing down and appreciating what he had.
“You don’t have a garter.” Just in the interest of fact-checking her statement, he smoothed his hand a little farther up her thigh, rubbing his thumb over all that silky, warm skin as he pushed her skirt higher.
“Can you toss me my bag?” She pointed to the canvas monstrosity dumped on the sand. He’d packed go bags with less stuff, he mused as he fetched it and handed it over to her. She rummaged inside and produced a candy necklace, one of those strings of pastel pink, blue and green candies his five-year-old niece adored.
“Now I’ve got the perfect accessory,” she said coyly.
“You’ve got about a hundred calories,” he countered.
“Uh-huh. Watch, big boy.” She slid the necklace up over her bare foot. Okay. So maybe he could have a thing for tradition after all.
“Do you dance, too?” Could he get that lucky?
“I have to get it on first,” she pointed out. “Then you can take it off.”
She drew the necklace up over her knee, the beads bumping against his hand.
“I’m sensing a plan,” he said, exhaling a slow, ragged breath. “And don’t stop on my account. Keep right on going. It turns out that I may be a traditionalist after all.”