Out of Bounds Read online

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  The Caught Up in Love Series

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He's Mine

  Trophy Husband

  Stars in Their Eyes

  Standalone Novels

  BIG ROCK

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  The Sexy One

  Far Too Tempting

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Playing With Her Heart

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  Night After Night

  After This Night

  One More Night

  A Wildly Seductive Night

  Nights With Him

  Forbidden Nights

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me

  Melt for Him

  Consumed By You

  The Jewel Series

  The Sapphire Affair

  The Sapphire Heist

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Bio

  Chapter One

  Dani

  I’ll admit it. I’ve been ogling today in the ocean. I’ve been checking someone out in the water. But, in my defense, anyone would.

  His body is to die for.

  From my vantage point several waves away, it’s a mighty nice view.

  Especially when the big, broad guy with the killer smile pops up on his board, bends his knees, and glides along a rolling crest in the Pacific Ocean.

  Like he belongs there.

  Well, this time.

  Admittedly, he’s toppled into the waves a lot this afternoon, but we all land on our butts in the water now and then. Staying vertical on a longboard isn’t the easiest task in the universe.

  Besides, who’s counting? Or gawking?

  Oh wait. That’d be me, draped over my board, lolling in the water and enjoying the eye candy in between my own sessions on the waves.

  When Eye Candy Surfer Guy gets up there, he looks damn good. Calm. In control.

  Muscles rippling and glistening with ocean water.

  Happy sigh.

  I tilt my head, when I spot trouble in the form of another guy. A lanky dude on a battered orange board drops into Eye Candy’s wave, inserting himself exactly where he shouldn’t be.

  There’s a rule in the ocean—you don’t stick yourself into someone else’s wave.

  That’s when it happens.

  The board shoots out from beneath the skinny dude, and in a blur of lanky limbs, he tumbles backward into the water, his body smacking the sea in a loud slap. His orange board skims the water on a fast track for Eye Candy. The former lifeguard in me springs to life, and as I paddle closer, I cup a hand over my mouth and shout, “Heads up!”

  My warning is futile. The board is hell-bent on a mission—Eye Candy’s head—and as it connects with the back of his noggin, the man’s handsome face contorts. A thunk rings out above the crashing of the waves.

  I wince as the guy with the killer grin goes kersplat. I’ve been there, done that, and it stings like hell. Poor guy.

  He’s knocked into the sea, the leash on his leg keeping his own board afloat. We’re close to the shore and the waves aren’t huge, so I’m not worried he’s about to be swept out to the murky depths in a watery death. But I’m not about to hang here and ride the next swell while someone is drowning.

  I paddle over, but not because I’ve been admiring his strong legs. Or his big, muscular arms. Or even his flat, sculpted, completely lickable abs, for that matter. I paddle over because I’m not an asshole. As I reach the scene of the head-whacking, the perpetrator of surfing rudeness pokes his head out and scans for his board. It’s bobbing a few feet away, and he swims off for it.

  Two seconds later, the whacked one pops up, brushing a big hand along his face, then his wet hair.

  “You okay?” I ask over the sound of the ocean. Venice Beach is home for beginner and intermediate surfers thanks to its mostly mellow waves. From the looks of it, Eye Candy hasn’t spent a ton of time hanging ten. I’m not a competitive surfer, either. I just do this for fun, and I head to the other beaches when I want bigger waves.

  Blinking, the guy rubs the back of his head. His surfboard bobs near him, so I kick closer, reach out an arm, and push it to him. He grabs hold of it, his strong arms resting on it now.

  Those arms.

  They’re not my Kryptonite.

  They’re not my Kryptonite.

  They’re not my Kryptonite.

  Fine, fine. They’re any woman’s Kryptonite.

  “I think I’ll live,” he says, and I can tell he’s being sarcastic, but even so he looks like he should get out of the water. Even though I’m a world-class ogler, I’ve got a caretaker in me too.

  So in my best gentle but firm voice, I say, “That’s excellent news. But maybe consider life on the shore for a few minutes.” I tip my head in the direction of the sand.

  “I hear the sand has fewer flying objects,” he says, his lips twitching in a tiny grin.

  Bingo. We have a sarcastic one on our hands. My favorite kind of man.

  “That’s one of its many selling points.”

  He shoots me a small smile, then follows my advice, paddling to the shore. He lugs his board out of the water and sinks next to it in the sand. I make my way out of the ocean too and plop down by his side. I’ve seen enough surfing mishaps over the years, and even though I don’t know this guy from Adam, I want to make sure he’s okay.

  “That surfboard absolutely had it in for you. Vicious thing,” I say, leaning back to see if there’s blood pouring out of his head. Good news—his skull’s not leaking its contents. “I think you might have pissed it off.”

  “Hmmm. Come to think of it, I did trash talk it when I was riding a wave before,” he deadpans, as he rubs the back of his head while staring off at the sea. His face is in profile, and something about his eyes feels familiar. Tickles a spot in my memory. But I can’t place him, so he must just look like someone I know.

  Or someone I want to know.

  I give myself a mental drum roll for that one.

  With the guy sitting next to me in the warm sand, his hands on his knees, I’m keenly aware of how big he is. He’s taller than normal. Broader than normal. Bigger than the average Joe. He’s not built like the rest of us regular people. As I roam my eyes over his arms, I nearly do a double take. Because holy patron saint of forearms. His are an homage to arm-porn memes everywhere. My mouth waters.

  “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 co
ncussion 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.

  I jut up a shoulder. “Ha. Yes, just think of me as the Venice Beach lifeguard.”

  Then he’s not so thankful. Nor so goofy. He’s something else entirely as he roams his eyes up and down my body, and that little flutter in my chest turns into a full-blown swoop. He checks me out, and he’s not shy about it—his eyes linger on my chest, then my belly, and now my legs. And I don’t mind being the object of his ocular attention, even in my royal-blue bikini with the seashell pattern. “Maybe I’ll go back in the water and pray to get hit again,” he says, his tone flirty.

  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.