Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
My social calendar is the Sahara.
That’s Los Angeles—a good guy who doesn’t mansplain is as rare as a clear lane during rush hour on the freeway.
I set down my paperback on my Los Angeles Bandits towel, then stare at the Pacific, willing the scene to calm my rattled nerves.
In the distance, a boat bobs along. Closer to the shore, a couple of towheaded toddlers cart buckets of sand for sandcastles. Off to the side, guys play volleyball, spiking like they’re trying out for the next Top Gun.
And all along the water, surfers and paddle boarders ride waves and paddle through them. Venice Beach is home for all sorts of board sports thanks to its mostly mellow crests. Neither are things I’ll ever do, but I like to watch and to wade.
I stand and stretch. Watch out, world. A top-notch toe-dipper is on her way into the Pacific.
Leisurely, I make my way to the shoreline, letting the cool water kiss my feet. The early afternoon sun beats down on my shoulders as I wade in until the water reaches my waist. I freestyle for a few relaxing lengths, then my gaze catches on a paddle boarder two board lengths away, close enough for me to see the water bead on his carved abs.
Oh hello, eye candy.
I float on my back and indulge in the primo view.
That body will take a mind off a week of headaches, flat tires, and annoying exes—broad shoulders, carved abs, and a killer smile have that effect. Yup. Happy place, I am in you at last.
The hottie pushes his oar through the water, gliding along a rolling crest of a wave, nice and smooth. Strong legs, big, delish arms, totally lickable abs—all his muscles rippling and glistening with ocean water.
I sigh. This is the kind of shirtlessness I can enjoy. Boarders should be shirtless.
But as I’m enjoying the scenery, another paddle boarder comes out of nowhere, dropping into Eye Candy’s wave, and breaking a basic rule of the ocean road—don’t jump in someone else’s lane.
I pop upright, tensing, picturing dangerous scenarios unfolding. Ones that involve boards, and oars, and heads, and whacks.
The lanky guy loses his footing and tumbles backward off the board in a blur of limbs, hitting the water with a loud slap. The oar shoots from his hand on a fast track for Eye Candy. The former lifeguard in me shouts, “Heads-up!”
But not quickly enough.
Smack!
The oar connects with the back of the paddle boarder’s noggin, and the hottie goes kersplat, face-first into the water. I cringe in sympathy as he’s knocked under the sea.
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.”