Out of Bounds (2 page)

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?”

“Both,” I say, then I rise. “Let’s go freeze your brain.”

He stands up too, and my breath catches. He’s so good-looking, and he towers over me. I’m not short. I’m average height. But he’s athlete height, and it’s intoxicating. There’s just something about a tall, well-built man that makes you want to step out of your panties right then and there, toss them over your shoulder, and say . . .

Whoa.

Settle down, wild imagination.

I meant, there’s something about a tall, well-built man that makes your heart beat faster. That’s all I meant.

He strokes his chin as if in deep thought. “I do like ice. I’ve often felt it’s one of those great inventions of the world. It reduces swelling and when you’re done, you put it in a drink.” He waves a hand in the air, like the idea just occurred to him. “Like, say, a margarita.”

He raises an eyebrow, and the look in his eyes is so damn inviting. If I were insecure, I’d ask myself if this man is actually asking me out for a drink. But I’m not that kind of a girl. I’m the confident kind, and I like confidence in return.

“Why yes, Andrew,” I say, batting my eyes. “You can buy me a margarita while I ice your skull.”

“
In some universe, somewhere, that’s code for something very dirty,” he says, shaking his head as he laughs. “In this universe, I’ll take it at face value. And I’ll take you out for a drink.”

When I carried my surfboard from my nearby home to the beach this Sunday afternoon, I never expected a date with a surfing quarterback. But it sounds damn good to me. Even if he’s pretending he’s not a ballplayer right now.

He’s playing at being a regular Joe.

I drop my surfboard at the Hang Ten shop since I know the owner, Daisy, a forty-something gal with a fishtail braid and a sunshine personality that suits her name. I tell her I’ll snag it later.

She pats my board affectionately, anthropomorphizing it as she often does. “We’ll keep your girl safe and sound.”

Then I head to a bar on the beach to play pretend. Only there’s no faking the attraction that already feels real.

Chapter Two

Drew

The hot-as-sin blond beauty points across the table to the big red parachute in the sky. A woman hangs below it in a harness, pulled along by a boat in front of her.

“I can’t believe you’ve never gone parasailing,” Dani says, as she returns her focus to me, her big brown eyes wide and sparkling. “Venice Beach has awesome parasailing. You have to try it. Besides, there are no surfboards in the air.”

“That is a great selling point for parasailing. And I had no idea there
was
parasailing here. I always thought of Venice Beach as more of a surf town, or just a hangout town,” I say, picking up my beer bottle and tipping some back. She’s seated next to me at the table and we’re watching the beach. A guy rides a unicycle, a parrot perched on his shoulder. Behind him, a pack of skateboarders in low-slung shorts tear up the concrete. Someone else plays the drums farther down the path, beating out a hippy tune.

“It’s an everything town. I’ve lived here for a couple years,” she says, and I can see her fitting into this sunshine life. Blond hair, brown eyes, tanned skin. Ridiculously hot body, even though she’s covered it up now with a tank dress she had in her mesh bag. At first I pegged her for an actress or model, and if that makes me shallow, so be it. She’s just fucking hot. But lawyer seems to suit her, since she’s sarcastic and likes to give me a hard time. Both work for me. I’m especially enjoying the fact that she has no clue who I am. Fine, I’m not Tom Brady and I don’t expect people to recognize me all the time, but it happens enough, so it’s nice to just move in and out of crowds without anyone realizing they might see me on TV on any given Sunday.

Which
is why I grabbed my ball cap and shades when I dropped my board in the back of my buddy’s truck that I borrowed today, before grabbing this table with Dani.

“I’m a California girl,” she adds.

“You’re Dani California.”

She smiles. “Like the song.”

“Except, Dani died in the song,” I say, referring to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ tune. I shake my head. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that.”

She laughs. “Yeah, bit of a bummer. I’ll erase that from my memory banks, even though I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“As much as you like surfing?”

She leans into my shoulder and whispers. “Almost as much as I love margaritas,” she says, lifting her glass. As she takes a sip I can’t seem to look away, because this woman has spectacular lips.

I mean, c’mon. It’s not like I didn’t notice when we first started talking. Even if my head hurt. Even if my vision was a little fuzzy. Now, I’ve got my hand on the back of my head, icing the bump with an ice pack the waiter brought over, and I’m dying to know how her lips taste.

“Do you surf a lot?” she asks me.

“Just started recently. Loving it so far.” Surfing
is
one of the few athletic activities that’s not forbidden by my contract, which is why I’ve been trying to get on the waves as often as I can these days. “What about you?”

“I’ve been doing it for a while. I try to go whenever I have a day off and it’s beautiful out like this. Let me know if you ever want a lesson,” she says, her tone flirty.

“
I will take you up on that, no doubt,” I say, adjusting the ice pack. “You ever been hit by a board?”

“A few times. But not on the back of my head. Did you hear about the guy who runs Wild Sand Surf Shop down the road?”

“No. But wait. Let me guess.” I hold up a hand and scrunch my forehead, like I’m thinking hard. Then, as if I’m on a game show, I call out the answer. “I’ve got it. He was hit by a board?”

“Yes,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Mr. Sarcasm. But wait till you hear
where
he was hit.”

“Oh man, this is gonna be good.”

“It is. Because his nickname is . . . wait for it . . . One-Eyed Jack.”

Reflexively, I cup a hand over my eye. “No. Say it isn’t so.”

She nods. “It is so. Tip of the board hit him here,” she says, tapping the corner of her eye. “He has a glass eye.”

I cringe. It takes a lot to make me cringe. But I really enjoy the use of my eyes.
A lot
. So, the prospect of not seeing is pure wince-worthy. “That’s really making me want to surf again.” I take a beat, then loudly add, “
Not.
^”

“And every year on Halloween he goes all out. He slathers makeup all over his eye to look freaky. Like, fake blood and everything coming out of it.”

“That actually sounds mildly horrifying.”

She smiles wickedly. “It is absolutely mildly horrifying. But it’s a great costume for scaring people.”

I raise my chin. “What about you? What’s your scariest costume?”

She
shrugs, saucily. “I just go as myself.”

“How’s that scary?” I say, moving closer to her. This woman is a firecracker, and I’m digging talking to her, and looking at her, and let’s just call a spade a spade. The only thing better would be talking, looking,
and
touching. Fucking would probably be quite nice too.
Just saying.
“You’re not scary. You’re sweet.”

She narrows her eyes. “No one ever calls attorneys sweet.”

“Ah, so you’re a shark.”

She hums the theme song for one of film’s most famous villains. “Call me Jaws.”

I love that she’s sarcastic and funny. Even better is the fact that she’s not a groupie. Sometime it’s nice to parlay the gig into a little bit of attention, or maybe a fun night out, since there are plenty of women who want a night with the quarterback. This chick? She doesn’t seem to have a clue I play ball, and it’s fun. I’m not complaining or saying no one likes me for me. Hardly. I’m simply enjoying that we’re a guy and a girl on the beach. I haven’t told her what I do though, and it seems strange to leave that out, so I decide to offer a sliver of it. “Just teasing about the shark part. I’m in the sports business, so some might call me that too.”

She raises her glass. “Let’s all be good sharks then.”

I clink my beer bottle to her glass and we both take drinks. That’s all either one of us says about work. She asks no more about sports, and I don’t offer, and that’s fine by me.

She sets down her glass, raises her hand, and reaches for the back of my head. Gently, she pushes the ice pack aside, brushing her palm over my head again. She’s got a reassuring touch. A caring one too. “Maybe you should go as a sexy nurse on Halloween,” I say softly. “Both seem to fit.”

A
sweet smile spreads on her pretty face
.
After a few seconds, she adds, “But that’s not a scary costume.”

I shake my head. “It’s not at all. But you’d rock it.”

Her well of sarcasm seems to slip away from her as she as she whispers
thank you
. After a few seconds, she adds, “I think your goose egg is history, Andrew.”

I set the pack on the table, but she keeps her hand on me, rubbing the back of my head absently. Fuck, this is nice. More than nice. It’s arousing. Her touch stirs up other parts. One
other
part to be precise, and I silently curse the fact that I’m wearing board shorts. They don’t hide tents at all. But then again, who cares? If she wants to check out the package, I’ll salute her. I like her hands on me. I like her touching me. Hell, I like what I know of her so far.