Out of Bounds(2)

“Next time, be sure to whisper sweet nothings to all the other boards, and they’ll stay away from your head,” I tell him in a conspiratorial tone. “But the good news is I don’t think it drew blood. Does it hurt?”

He waves a hand in the air. “Nah, I get hit all the time.”

I frown in confusion. “By angry surfboards?”

He laughs, and holds up a big hand. “That’d be a funny name for a band.”

“It would be,” I say, smiling too as I shield my eyes from the sun that shines brightly as it emerges from behind a cloud. “And I’m guessing you don’t have a surfboard concussion now.”

He laughs. “Let’s hope not, especially since one of my biggest life goals is to spend every day avoiding concussions.”

“Is that a risk in your line of work?”

“It can be. But hey, that’s what helmets are for.”

I’m about to ask if he’s a construction worker when he turns to me and flashes a smile. A blindingly gorgeous one that shows off straight white teeth, and the rest of his handsome face. Damn, it’s like staring at the sun. He’s so good-looking it nearly hurts. But I’ll take the pain, oh yes, I will take the pain of gazing at his hazel eyes, his square jaw, his strong cheekbones, that little notch in his chin that’s so damn alluring.

Like the rest of him.

That’s when it hits me. Holy shit. I know this guy. Okay, maybe I don’t know him personally. He’s not a former coworker, an ex-classmate, or a friend of a friend. And he’s not in construction. He’s in the same business as me, only I’m behind the scenes managing contracts for the Los Angeles Knights, one of the two Los Angeles pro football teams, and he’s on the field, guiding his team toward the end zone.

Part of me is shocked to see him here, but I don’t let on. As a lawyer, I’ve developed a helluva poker face, and my job is to roll with the punches.

I just wasn’t expecting today’s eye-candy surfer boy to be . . . the quarterback.

That’s why he said he gets hit all the time. Because he gets slammed when his linemen fail to protect him—and for the last few years, they’ve been doing exactly that. He’s Drew Erickson, a rising star in the league, and he plays for the other local pro team, the Anaheim Devil Sharks.

What were the chances that he’d be at this beach? As quickly as the question lands in my head, I answer it for myself. The chances aren’t that slim. He lives in the Los Angeles area, he’s athletic, and the beach is the most wonderful thing ever created.

“By the way,” he says, gesturing to the vast expanse of water, the waves choppier as the afternoon tide tugs at the shore. “I appreciate you making sure I was okay. That was cool of you.” He offers a hand. “I’m Andrew.”

I blink, but say nothing at first.

That’s quite an interesting introduction. No one calls him Andrew. He’s only ever been referred to as Drew. Call me Einstein, but I’m going out on a limb and guessing that the Surfing Quarterback doesn’t want to be recognized. Fine, I can play that game.

“I’m Dani,” I say taking his hand. His larger paw engulfs mine, and of course he has big hands. Of course he has beautiful arms. His right arm delivered some impressive work in recent months. His quarterback rating put him in the top ten in the league last year, and that was coming off the bench to replace his team’s starter midway. He had one of those “where the hell did you come from” seasons that surprised a lot of folks. Especially since he was a fifth-round draft pick, and he rode the bench his first few seasons, but last year he had a chance to show his mettle for his team. And let me tell you, this man possesses some serious mettle to the tune of having thrown only one interception last season.

Look, I happen to be in a long-term love affair with stats. I’ve gone to bed most nights with numbers on my brain. And I’m ridiculously good with details.

But I’m not very good at letting go of his hand. I’m still holding it. Not because I’m star struck, but because this man won’t drop my hand either.

“Thank you, surf angel Dani.” He shoots me that smile again, and it’s like a secret weapon he can use on women. A ray of heat bursts inside me. My chest flutters. And I’m officially weak in the knees.

That smile.

His weapon is working. Oh, it’s mostly definitely working, and it’s a good thing I’m already sitting. Because that smile would knock me on my rear, it’s so goddamn swoonworthy.

He lets go of my hand, and I nearly whimper at the end of the best handshake ever.

“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.