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“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 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—”
“—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 thanso 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.”
