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.