Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
“Fewer flying oars,” he corrects, with a bigger smile.
I smile too, since he seems no worse for wear. “That’s one of its many selling points.”
“I’m sold then.” When the water is waist deep, he stands, picks up his board, and carries it as he wades out of the surf.
And…wow. That’s a helluva backside.
I cannot stop staring. But in my defense…his ass.
He drops his board into the sugary sand, then sinks down next to it. There goes my butt view.
But the face view is fine too.
Swiping away dirty thoughts, I follow him out of the water and plop down beside him, setting the oar next to us. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. But it’s Los Angeles. There’s a ninety percent chance he’s been in a commercial or is a background character in a movie.
“Lifeguard 101ing continues,” I say, all bossy. “Let me see if you’ve got a cut.”
“All right. Check me out.” He goes with the flow, leaning forward so I can inspect his scalp. I peer closely, looking for any lacerations or scrapes. I sigh in relief when I find none.
“What’s the diagnosis, doc?”
“Good news. Your skull is solid. No damage.”
With a laugh, he raps the side of his head with his knuckles. “Like I tell my friends, this is a rock.”
I laugh too. “Good thing, since that guy’s oar had it in for you. But I also want to make sure you don’t have a concussion. Would you humor me?”
With an easygoing shrug, he says, “Sure. I’ll humor you.” Then he quickly recites the correct date, time, and year.
Whoa. Someone has done this before. “Impressive.”
“Why thank you,” he says, a little devilish.
He answered the first question correctly, but I’m not done. If he goes back out there with a concussion, he could get seriously hurt. “Now, can you give me a series of numbers—”
“—backward?”
“Well, aren’t you just a concussion protocol show-off?”
“Numbers. Serve ’em up.” He wiggles his fingers. He doesn’t sound dazed like he did in the water. His eyes are alight with mischief, and they hold mine.
Okay, cutie, you’re on.
I fire off some tough-to-remember numbers. “Fine. 77, 119, 2056, 2, 34.”
“34, 2, 2056, 119, 77,” he says, smirking, “And…69.”
My cheeks heat, and it’s not from the warm sun overhead. But I stay in character. Like a game show host disappointed when a contestant guesses wrong, I say, “Damn. And you were so close too.”
“Ah, but I aim for a little higher than so close. Give me another shot to go all the way.”
Maybe I’m just flirt-finishing the test. But so be it. With a saucy shrug, I ask, “Now, can you repeat these five words in reverse order?” I give him five random nouns. “Boat. Cat. Shoe. Car. Book.”
When he meets my gaze full-on, his hazel eyes are a little fiery and so familiar again.
Who is he? I blot out the rest of the beach, the volleyball guys, the families, the sound of kids racing into the waves, and really try to place him.
He licks his lips, hums, then takes his sweet time. “The one you were reading. McLaren, red please. Heels…on you in any color. Starts with a P and I’ll say it when the lights are off. And a yacht,” he says.
Forget the detective work. My belly is doing a sexy tango, and I can’t quite think straight. This man is a fast talker with a dirty mind, and I am here for it.
“You win. A-plus on your test,” I say.
He pumps a fist. “I love winning. Even if it means I have to get hit by a vindictive oar.”
I laugh. “That’d be a good name for a band.”
“I bet it is a name for a band.”
“Everything is a name for a band these days,” I add.
He snaps his fingers. “Rogue Wave Riders would be a sweet name too.”
“They’re playing at the Holy Cow Sunday night. They go on after Vengeful Kayaks, and then Angry Jet Skis closes the set,” I say.
“We’re so there,” he says. He turns to me again, his expression shifting from joking to genuine. “Thanks again for the concussion check. Not gonna lie—avoiding concussions is a big life goal for me.”
Now I’m curious. “Is that a risk in your line of work?”
“It’s a risk in life,” he says a little evasively, glancing away to survey the beach. Then he turns back to me and flashes a blindingly gorgeous smile. If it’s a distraction ploy, it’s effective, showing off his straight white teeth, his square jaw, his strong cheekbones.
And a little dimple in his chin that’s so damn alluring.
Like the rest of him.
Oh. My. God.
Yes! That’s the smile I see on TV. In his promo photos. When he thanks a reporter on the sidelines after a game.
I just never expected to bump into the quarterback of one of the city’s football teams paddle boarding. Especially since most player contracts forbid water sports.