Out of Bounds

“I hardly did anything,” I say, making light of my impromptu lifeguard moment.

He shakes his head adamantly. “You shouted heads up.”

“Well, that was my idiot alert, of course,” I say dryly. “The guy dropping into your wave was an idiot to do that.”

But Andrew will have none of my self-deprecation. He’s intent on complimenting me, it seems. “Then you swam over to me, and you escorted me to shore. After that, you conducted a full and thorough visual inspection of my head. Now you’re looking out for me to make sure I’m not either, one, slurring, or two, foaming at the mouth.” He lets his jaw hang open and adopts a crazed, rabid look in his eyes, and I laugh. “It’s like I’m on an episode of Baywatch,” he says, with a little twinkle in his eye.

I jut up a shoulder. “Ha. Yes, just think of me as the Venice Beach lifeguard.”

Then he’s not so thankful. Nor so goofy. He’s something else entirely as he roams his eyes up and down my body, and that little flutter in my chest turns into a full-blown swoop. He checks me out, and he’s not shy about it—his eyes linger on my chest, then my belly, and now my legs. And I don’t mind being the object of his ocular attention, even in my royal-blue bikini with the seashell pattern. “Maybe I’ll go back in the water and pray to get hit again,” he says, his tone flirty.

Holy smokes. Drew Erickson is flirting with me. And I don’t think he has a clue that I know who he is. If I were a betting woman, I’d say he’s enjoying not being known right now. He’s digging being just a dude on a beach.

Let’s give the man what he wants then, because this has all the makings to be fun.

“Now, Andrew,” I say, chiding. “We don’t want to tempt fate, and have you get hit again by wild surfboards. They’re mating this time of year, so you can never be too careful.”

He arches an eyebrow as he rubs his hand against the back of his head again. “Mating? These boards are just flinging themselves at each other?”

I nod, a serious expression on my face. “They do it with abandon, gleefully humping other boards as frequently as they can. Best to be safe.”

“Screwing surfboards,” he says, cracking up. Then he winces.

I let go of the joking. “Does your head still hurt?” I ask softly, the caretaker popping back up.

“Nah,” he says, but it’s the tough-guy answer.

“Let me take another look, okay?”

“Sure.”

I kneel and move closer to him, raising my hand. Then I touch his head. It’s kind of awesome, and weird at the same time. I’m touching a stranger’s skull, but he’s not entirely a stranger.

“How’s my head?”

“It’s rather bumpy.”

He snaps his gaze at me. “It is?”

“Have you ever felt your own skull?” I ask, peering at him with narrowed eyes.

“Sure. I’m well aware of the shape.”

I rub my hand along the spot where he was hit. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but your head has got a funky shape.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says, laughing as the sun ducks behind a stray cloud. “Really appreciate the compliments.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” I run my palm up and down the back of his head. He leans into my palm, rubbing like a cat. “You’re probably used to women complimenting the shape of your skull. Draping extravagant praise on it, and then you meet me, and I inform you it’s odd. I get it. You want to toss me into the ocean.”

Glancing up at me, he smiles. “I do not want to toss you into the ocean.” He takes a beat. Raises a finger. “However, I’d consider dunking you if you were already in it.”

“Ha. Fair enough,” I say, as the sun reemerges, casting its warm, bright glow across the vast expanse of sea. Near the shore, a menagerie of women in skimpy bikinis hop onto boards. Drew doesn’t seem to notice.

I like his lack of interest. A lot.

I sit down again in the sand. “Anyway, you have very nice hair. I mean, it’s wet. But it’s still quite nice.”

Shaking his head, he laughs. “You’re a real ballbuster.”

I shrug as if it’s no big deal to give a man a hard time. “I’ve been called that before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I’m an attorney, so it comes with the territory.”

“Personal injury? If so, I’d like to sue that board.”

“No, I practice law for—” I’m about to tell him I do contracts and deals for the Knights and its vendors, reading and writing the fine print on nearly everything except player contracts. Instead, I sidestep. If he’s avoided the details, I can too. “I practice corporate law. But in my free time, I conduct assessments on skull shape, and I’m here to make a pronouncement.”

He sweeps an arm out grandly. “By all means. Pronounce.”

I drop my hand and meet his gaze. “You have a big goose egg, Andrew. We need to get some ice on it.”

“That’s your opinion as a lawyer, or a surf angel?”