All of twenty-nine, and I sound like a schoolmarm.Next, I’ll be shoutingget off my lawnat 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, becausemanners. 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, gentlybut 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 isfinetoo.
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 Ialsowant 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—”