I move as fast as I can, and as I reach the scene, the skinny guy surfaces and shakes his wet hair out of his eyes. Spotting his paddle board a few feet away, he swims off for it.

  “You should be more careful,” I chide.

  All of twenty-nine, and I sound like a schoolmarm. Next, I’ll be shouting get off my lawn at the neighborhood kids. But the guy doesn’t even acknowledge me as he chases his board and, presumably, his oar.

  A second later, the hottie pops up, brushing a hand along his face and over his wet hair. “Oof,” he mutters and shakes his head like it’s ringing.

  “You okay?” I ask over the sound of the sea.

  Blinking, he rubs the back of his head. His disoriented gaze is a little worrisome. I’ve got to get him out of the ocean. His board bobs near him, so I kick closer to it, then push it over to him. “Grab your board,” I tell him, then I grab the oar.

  He obeys, his strong arms resting on it. His are an homage to arm porn memes everywhere, but I shove aside my gawking to check in. “How are you doing?”

  “I think I’ll live,” he says, his tone is a little dry. “Do you do this a lot?”

  “Help out when a guy’s been dropped in on?” I ask, and he gives a small nod. “I used to be a lifeguard. If I can help, I will.”

  “You’re off-duty and you’re checking on me,” he says with a dreamy smile. “You’re like the patron saint of paddle boarders.”

  And you have a body I’d like to worship, I want to say, but I don’t, because manners. Besides, the man’s clearly dizzy, and dizzy people don’t belong in the water.

  “I’m glad you’re not feeling too bad,” I say, gently but firmly as I tip my head in the direction of the sand. “But maybe consider life on the shore for a few minutes.”

  “Not a bad idea. I hear there are fewer flying objects over there,” he says, his lips twitching in a tiny grin as he paddles toward the shore.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say as I swim alongside him, dragging the oar with me. “There are drones, frisbees, helicopters. Airplanes.”

  “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.

  We’re in the same freaking business. I work behind the scenes managing vendor contracts for the Los Angeles Bandits, the city’s baseball team, and Drew Adams is on the field, leading the Devil Sharks to the end zone.

  He’s a rising star in the league, but in this city, especially in sports, you learn quickly to wait for someone famous to tell you who they are. So, I wave away the topic without letting on that I’ve finally recognized him. “Life is full of risks. Like the ocean. I’m sure that’s a bumper sticker somewhere. I’m just glad you’re doing better.”

  Another smile, this one grateful. “I appreciate you making sure I was okay.” He gestures to the vast expanse of water, the scene of the fall, then offers his hand. “I’m…” He stops, seeming to swallow whatever he’d been going to say, and his eyes dart away and then back to mine. “I’m Andrew. Nice to meet you.”

  The media only ever refers to him as Drew. One quick glance around gives me the answer to the unexpected Andrew. The family with the towheads is two towels away from us. The volleyball guys are maybe twenty yards north. So far, he’s been lucky that no one has seen him, and that no one caught his fall on camera.

  Sure, it’s also possible he doesn’t want me to know who he is.

  Two can play at this pretend game, and probably two should. It’s just wiser, safer too, here in public.

  “I’m Brooke,” I say taking his hand. “But you can call me Beach Nurse. Wait, No. Surf Nurse is way cooler.”

  He laughs. “I was going to go with Surf Angel. But Surf Nurse works. Is that a new TV show you’re on?”

  “Yes. It’s a reality show. I roam the beaches and save dudes in distress,” I say as he lets go of my hand.

  He growls. “Hey now. I wasn’t in distress.”

  I tsk, but I’m teasing. “You were upside down underwater, Andrew.”

  “Fine, Brooke. I was totally a dude in distress and you’re the surf damsel who saved me.” He checks me out in my royal-blue seashell-patterned bikini, and he’s not shy about it either. His eyes linger on my chest, then my belly, and then my legs. That little flutter turns into a full-blown swoop. If this is all today is—some eye-fucking—I don’t mind at all.

  Since I will take that and be thinking of him when I’m alone in bed tonight.

  He clears his throat, his expression turning earnest, intense. “Thanks again for helping me out today.”

  That has a hint of “wrapping this up for a polite goodbye” to it. I’m a little disappointed because I’ve been enjoying his banter so much. The important thing, though, is he’s not hurt and he had someone to look out for him.

  “I hardly did anything,” I tell him honestly. “I’m just glad you’re fine.”

  Drew shakes his head adamantly. “You did a lot. You shouted heads-up. Escorted me to shore. Conducted a full-on test. And endured my innuendo,” he says with a little twinkle in his eye.

  “I wouldn’t say your innuendo was a hardship,” I say.

  “I could so make a joke…”

  “Oh please. Don’t stop now. I need to hear this hardship joke.”

  “My innuendo is a…yacht,” he says, then tosses his head back, clutching his belly. “Shoot. I’m sorry. That was bad. I’m going to need to dock myself some points.”

  I give him a stern look. “For being a joke show…boat.”

  “Exactly. You get it.” He sits up straighter. “But what I want to say is”—he gestures to me—“this was worth getting hit for.”

  Oh.

  Wow.

  I’m not sure what to say. Chatting with him is such a welcome respite from punctured tires, OnlyFans requests, and promotions that passed me by. With Drew, I’m not the woman her ex wanted to interview.

  I’m a lifeguard, a surf nurse, a damsel who saves dudes.

  I’m the woman who was worth getting clocked by a paddleboard oar for.

  “Thank you,” I say softly. “I wish you didn’t get hit. But I’m glad I was here to help.”

  “Me too,” he says, then rubs his hand against the back of his head again. He winces. Uh-oh.

  “Does your head still hurt?”

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

  “If you say so,” I say, my tone saying you’re full of it.

  He dips his face. “Hurts a little,” he admits, as if it costs him something.

  “Let me take another look, okay?”

  “Sure,” he says, easily agreeing.

  I kneel and move closer to him so I can run my fingers gently over his skull. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but your head has got a funny shape,” I whisper.

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

  “I’m sorry,” I deadpan as I run my palm up and down the back of his head. “You’re probably used to women complimenting the shape of your skull. Oh, it’s so round, Andrew,” I coo.

  Amused, he shakes his head. “Known you for ten minutes and I’ve already figured out you like giving me a hard time.”

  “Took you that long?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Two minutes. The drone comment did it.”

  “Hmm. I’m pretty sure that was one minute into our fantastic new friendship,” I say as the sun re-emerges from a cloud, warming my shoulders again. That feels fitting for this day—let the damn sun shine now. “But considering your hardship comment, I think you like it.”

  “I do like it,” he admits, no sarcasm from him either this time.

  When I drop my hand, I drop the games. “You do have a goose egg. You need to get some ice on it.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, it’s a big one,” I say before it’s too late.

  He snickers. “That innuendo is on you. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “You need to join me as I ice my head over there.” He points to a bar on the corner of the boardwalk. It’s tucked off to the side, and umbrellas offer privacy from passers-by and even from people in apartments nearby with views of the beach. He raises an eyebrow, and the invitation in his hazel eyes makes my stomach flip.

  I try my best to fight off a grin. Really, I do.

  But I fail, and I love failing, because it means this unexpectedly delightful moment isn’t ending.

  I rise, quickly tuck my Bandits towel in my mesh bag, and then tug on a purple tank top dress.

  He whimpers. “I was enjoying the view,” he says, as he stands.

  The zip returns, speeding through me, settling between my legs. “Don’t stop, then,” I say.

  “I won’t,” he says.

  When I left my home this morning, I just wanted to forget the week from hell. Now, I’m on an impromptu date with a guy on the beach, and bad luck is the furthest thing from my mind.

  Maybe things are starting to turn around.

  Who needs sunshine and a book? Looks like my fantasies are about to become reality.

  2

  Don’t Put the Parrot Before the Unicycle

  Drew

  * * *

  If I’d known getting whacked upside the head would lead to a blonde beauty saving me, I’d have spent less time avoiding hits.

  Currently, though, I’m avoiding the reality of my contract, my agent, and what’s next in my career—all the questions that have chased me lately.

  And I’m dodging reality my favorite way—in the company of a lovely lady.

  “Let me drop my board off,” I say when we reach the boardwalk.

  “I’ll grab a table,” she says.

  I’m parked nearby, so I’m soon loading the board into the back of a truck I borrowed from a friend, then I grab my phone and shades from the console and a hat from the front seat.

  Shit. This hat has a Renegades logo on it. Understandable, since Carter plays for the San Francisco football team. But I can’t wear a cap with our rivals on it in public. Or anywhere, for that matter. That shit would jinx my team, and we do not need more bad mojo.

  Mostly, though, I kind of want to lie low with Brooke and just enjoy her company. I don’t get recognized every day, but it happens often enough. Having a date is easier if I don’t draw attention. I managed to paddle board without being spotted, and I’d like to keep my streak, so I need a lid.

  Aha.

  I spot another hat on the floor—light blue, with Plays Well with Others written on it. It’s innocuous enough, so I grab it, adjust the back, then return to Brooke at the bar.

  She arches a brow in curiosity, her eyes on my headwear. “Well, that’s good to know,” she remarks.

  I adjust the brim. “I like to be direct.”

  “Clearly,” she says. “And I appreciate the insider tip.”

  “More like an advertisement.” I join her at the table, scooting my chair a little closer. Since…I do play well with others.

  Brooke holds out a cloth napkin wrapped around something bulky. “All right, Mister Paddle Board. I’ve got your ice pack right here.”

  Wow. She’s…awesome. “Let the record reflect that you are the only person I want saving me from any future vindictive oars.” I pick up the ice pack and press it against the back of my head, genuinely touched that she’s so damn on top of things.

  “I’m the picture of efficiency.”

  “And I’m the picture of being concussion-free. Check this out…77, 119, 2056, 2, 34. Also, boat. Cat. Shoe. Car. Book.”

  She scoffs. “I was expecting them backward.”

  My jaw drops in exaggerated outrage. “Woman, I remembered them fifteen minutes later. I want all the points.”

  She heaves a sigh of surrender. “Fine, you get sixty-nine points.”

  “Excellent.” We settle in, and when the server swings by, my date orders a margarita and I opt for an iced tea, due to the recent head injury and all.

  “All right. I have to know. Are you a big sister? You have some serious caretaker skills,” I say.

  “You figured me out. Although I believe Cara would call me a know-it-all, as well as a caretaker. And you? Any siblings?”

  “Two half-sisters. They’re nine. Mom re-married and, oops, twins.”

  Her eyes widen. “That’s quite an oops.”

  “Sure is, but Mira and Sophie are the best. I’ll be teaching them to paddle board soon.”

  When the server returns with our drinks, I lift my glass in a toast. “I’ll drink to vindictive oars and angel nurses,” I say.

  She clinks back. “I’ll drink to playing well with others.”

  “Goals,” I say.

  Brooke sets down her glass after a swallow and points to a big red parachute high over the water, where a woman rides the air currents, pulled by a boat below. “That might be something to consider,” Brooke says. “I don’t think there are too many vindictive parachutes in the sky.”

  “Noted. I’m a parasailing virgin, but it looks like fun.” I sip my iced tea.

  Her brown eyes widen at my comment, sparkling with surprise. “You should try it. Parasailing is so much fun, and it’s like a cousin of paddle boarding.”

  I arch a brow. “Brooke, you sure about that? One, you hang on a swing. The other, you ride over waves.”