Holiday weekends suck.

When you have to work, that is.

Even in the winter months, if I’m not painting or doing paperwork, I’m patrolling, which is my job today.

Shit, I think it is time for me to quit and start writing full-time because I really don’t want to be out here.

The back-to-back storms blamed on El Niño are nothing to be happy about, although I can’t say right now I’m that upset about them. With over two inches of rain yesterday and another three expected today, the National Weather Service is working on issuing a flash-flood warning for Southern California. And the only light at the end of the tunnel of this crazy weather is that it has warranted closing the beach.

Thank fuck.

It means I get to go home.

Although I’m certain Amelia will be passed out for many more hours, I’d still like to be around in case she wakes up. And not because I want to see that hot little body of hers or watch the way she puckers those sexy lips. No, that’s not why. In fact, I don’t know why. It’s just that I feel like she needs someone to fuck—I mean someone to talk to her.

Yeah, talk to her, not fuck her.

Typical of storms like the ones we’ve been battered with the past couple of days, the clouds are darkening quickly and the wind is picking up speed. The waves are calmer than usual, but out in the distance I can see the whitecaps. A sign of what’s to come. The rough waters are headed this way, and fast.

Chasing the last of the beachcombers away, I stick the “Public Beach Closed” sign in the sand and give one last look around. A couple of kids are being ushered up the pathway to the public parking lot by their parents and an old man is searching for loose change with his metal detector; otherwise, the beach is clear.

With a twist of the lock to the tower, I consider the run-swim-run workout I had planned to get myself home, but figure I should skip the swim part since I’d be breaking the beach rules I just posted.

Having jogged here, though, I have no choice but to huff it the two miles home. Staying as far from the shoreline as possible, I lunge forward, but don’t rush. When the white clouds disappear, I decide to pick up my pace.

Light drops of rain slide down my face just as I hit the one-mile mark. That’s when I start to run hard and fast. It’s cool, though. Sprinting barefoot in the wet sand has to be one of the best workouts. Second mile goes fast and soon I’m approaching my place. Just in time, too, because the rain is starting to pick up.

I shoot a wave to Ryan Gerhardt. He’s the famous mystery novelist who lives in the large, ultramodern beach house next door to me with his wife, Pam. Standing on his deck with his Yorkies, Romeo and Juliet, he’s staring out into the water with such a concerned look on his face that he doesn’t even notice me.

My head quickly does a 180 so I can see exactly what, or rather who, has his rapt attention.

It’s Amelia—in my black T-shirt, thigh-deep in the surf, standing unmoving. Her long hair is knotted up in a twist on top of her head and her hands are skimming along the surface of the water as if it is the most natural thing in the world to take a dip in the middle of a fucking storm.

There is something sad about her, though, which makes my heart twist. She’s staring vacantly out at the horizon. I watch for a beat, and then two, as she stands immobile.

What the hell is she doing?

She raises her hand to shade her eyes, and looks out into the Pacific Ocean as if the increasing wave heights and the rain are of absolutely no concern whatsoever.

They should be.

When she takes another step, farther out, I snap into lifeguard mode.

She shouldn’t be out there. The current is crazy strong and in an instant could ripple and carry her away with it.

“Amelia!” I yell with a frantic tone in my voice.

The waves are crashing, the seagulls above are squawking, and the dogs are barking, and I’m not sure if she can’t hear me or is simply in her own zone.

Dropping my phone in the sand, I take off toward the water at a dead run.

Just before I hit the shoreline, she squeezes her nose with her fingers and plummets below the surface.

Is she out of her mind?

Like a bat out of hell, I dive into the fucking 50-degree water and swim as fast as I can the fifteen feet or so to where she disappeared.

The water is murky, but I catch sight of her and take hold of her around her chest, immediately jetting us both up to the surface.

True to California weather, the storm is starting to rampage. Lightning illuminates the sky in the distance. Thunder, far away but coming closer, rumbles and roars loud and fierce. The ocean is getting rougher, choppier. The sky is suddenly grayer. Soon it will turn black.

Amelia is shouting, but I don’t stop to figure out what. I’m determined to get us safely on the shore.

Soon we’re knee deep in the surf and she stands on her own and shouts, “Are you crazy?”

Me?

Am I crazy?

Is she for real?

The storm has now reared up in full force, and again I have no time to answer her absurd question. The rain is coming down in fat, stinging splatters. Sand is flying all around the shore. We need to get inside. I grab her hand and yank her along with me. Luckily for her, she follows, or else it would be over-the-shoulder time—again.

“Do you need help?” Ryan yells from afar.

I look up and he is now below his deck and standing beyond the gate to his pool, raindrops striking the top of his head, his arms, and his silk shirt.

I wave over to him. “We’re fine, but thanks.”

Ryan nods, yet remains in place as if not willing to move until he is assured the storm isn’t going to carry us away. He and his wife lost their son a few years ago when his boat got lost in an unexpected storm.

Taking the last step out of the ocean, I look at Amelia, who has stopped to search the beach for something. “Let’s get inside!” I yell over the wind, pointing to the house.

“I left my camera and my phone wrapped in my towel on the sand!” she shouts.

I look away for one minute to where I dropped my phone. Fuck, that area is now covered with both water and sand. Looks like I lost another phone. That’s three in the past six months. Turning, I see Amelia is beginning to drift out into the ocean because of the strong current. “Forget it. It’s long gone!” I shout.

Squinting her eyes, she continues to search the beach for it. “No, I can find them. I have to find them. They’re somewhere on the beach,” she says and starts walking, in the opposite direction of the house, and she’s still in the water, too.

Lightning strikes overhead and the thunder roars. “Amelia! They’re gone!” I shout. “Get out of the water, now.”

Adhering to my command, she hurries out of the surf, but wanders toward Ryan’s house instead of toward me.

“Amelia!” I shout again over the rain and thunder.

Finally, she stops, and for a moment I think she is going to follow me, but instead of heading home, she looks out at the ocean.

Catching up to her, I take hold of her arm and look out as well, only to see a piece of yellow terry cloth flying away, almost like a flag. It’s one of Maggie’s towels. Amelia stands there watching it, unmoving, as the storm batters fiercely against us. Looks like it’s shoulder time after all. Jetting in front of her, I bend and grab her legs and toss her sexy little body over my shoulder.

Unlike last night, this time she’s not very pliable and stiffening her body, she tries to kick and punch her way free. I can’t hear her ranting over the sound of the wind, which might be a good thing.

Tiny fists pummel my back. It doesn’t really hurt.

Ouch, fuck. That one hurt. A kick right in the balls.

Ignoring the bodily harm she’s causing me, I run to Maggie’s door and thank you very much, it’s unlocked. As soon as I’m inside, I toss Amelia on the bed and turn to close the door.

Whipping around, I’m about to unleash my wrath upon Cam’s little sister when all I see is a tiny piece of fabric covering what I shouldn’t even be looking at.

My heart is pounding even harder.

My pulse, too.

Raising my gaze, I see her looking at me with those gray eyes, so much like the storm clouds outside that I can’t manage to get my pissed-off button to work right.

Stalking past her, I try to ignore her heavy breathing and grab two towels from Maggie’s bathroom. Striding back, I remain a good distance from her while I hand her one. “Here, you’re shivering.”

Standing up, she takes it and wraps it around herself. “I was trying to cure my hangover,” she tells me, her teeth chattering like Mexican jumping beans.

Water drips all over the wood floor as I stand here trying to process what the hell she said. “You were what?”

Letting her hair loose, she pats her head with the edge of the white terry-cloth towel, revealing her curvy body once again.

I avert my gaze, but find myself stealing a peek. Just a small glimpse at the tiny nipples protruding through the fabric of my T-shirt, and then lower to those shapely legs.

While towel-drying her hair, she tries to explain herself. “Extreme temperature change is supposed to cure a hangover, so I thought if I took a dip, it might cure mine.”

Lightning from outside lights up the room, and it’s then I notice the power must be out because the room is extremely dark. At first it arouses me. Causes my cock to stir even more. Then another flash finally refocuses my attention. The storm is bad. Really bad. Ignoring the power outage inconvenience for now, I fight the fury starting to bubble in my veins. “Did it?” I ask harshly.

Amelia laughs a little. “Yes, I think it did.”

In an attempt to tame my rising anger, I run a hand through my wet hair. “Good, I’m glad,” I manage through gritted teeth.

As if knowing I’m upset at her actions, she attempts to explain. “The storm came up fast—I wasn’t expecting it.”

That’s when I lose my cool. “You could have gotten killed out there. If you weren’t Cam’s little sister, I swear to God I’d take you over my knee right now and spank your little ass until it turns beet red for not listening to me when I told you to get inside.”

Those gray eyes widen to saucer-like size and her chest rises and falls even faster than about a minute ago. I can’t tell if what I just said scared the mother-fucking shit out of her or turned her on beyond belief. “What did you say?” she asks bitterly.

Okay, so I may not be reading her right. “You heard me.”

We seem to be staring each other down, and then she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “I’m sorry,” she manages.

Teetering on the edge of feeling a little bad for acting like an ass and telling her she should be sorry, I find myself clearing my own throat. “Don’t do it again. I’m a lifeguard, but if you had gotten taken away by the current, I’m not sure I could have saved you.”

She blinks, then narrows those come-to-me eyes at me. “I meant, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Oh, you heard me correctly.”

We come to an impasse, so to say, both staring the other down.

Cam’s little sister or not, I give it to her straight. “You could have hurt yourself, and I’d prefer you not do it on my watch.”

“Your watch?” she sneers.

Okay, so I might have taken it a bit far. “Look, all I’m saying is I’d prefer nothing happened to you.”

At that, she takes a deep breath and then blows it out. “You’re right. I am sorry. I wanted to find my camera and phone, really just my camera. I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten out there,” she says, and then out of nowhere her eyes well up with water and tears start streaming down her cheeks.

Oh, fuck.

Feeling sympathetic now, I take a step closer and place my hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay. You can get another.”

Taking in a full breath, she lets it out. “That’s just it, I can’t. My grandfather gave me that one before he died,” she says with an obvious attempt to stifle her tears.

Before I can say anything else, a flash of lightning and an almost instantaneous crash of thunder makes her jump. She slips a little, but I am there, with a hand having shifted to her elbow to catch her. With my hold, and her small hands on my forearms, she doesn’t fall.

We are touching like a game of Twister—my left hand to her left shoulder, her right hand to my right arm, my right hand to her right elbow.

Should we spin again and see what else we can connect?

Another rumble follows another flash. Suddenly, it’s even darker inside. Although it is still early in the morning, outside it is getting very dark, very quickly.

Her body is trembling, and somehow we seem to be pulled closer together. A little too close.

My balls might still be shriveled up from the cold, but my cock has been recovering rather quickly. He doesn’t seem to understand the forbidden circumstances surrounding this closeness because he’s beginning to do more than the little wakey, wakey of minutes ago.

The lights flicker on and jolt me out of my lustful haze.

No.

No.

No.

That is not the way I should be thinking…at all.

Pulling back, I try not to stare at her, not to look at her, not even to breathe on her. “I’ll look for it when the storm clears.”

“You will?” she asks in surprise.

“Yeah, sure, who knows—maybe the sand covered it. For now, though, why don’t you get changed and I’ll do the same.”

I mean if she wants to get changed now, with me in the room and the lights back on, I’m cool with that, too.

No wait, no I’m not.

Cam would fucking cut my balls off if he knew I saw her in her panties, her very skimpy panties at that. Who knows what he’d do if he found out I saw her naked.

Better not to find out.

The question is—better for whom?