The kitten yawned. Irene shifted her weight, because the surfboard was heavy and dug into her shoulder, but she made no move to leave. The sight mesmerized her, the frail calico belly encompassed by those bony hands, the thick nose caressing the minuscule feline nose. Kitten in relief against dark serge bathing costume, tanned surfer’s skin. From the look of that wet, heavy hair, this man had already encountered the ocean this morning. The drops still rolled down his temples and neck and forearms; the sleeves of his bathing costume were rolled to the elbows.

“He’s awfully fetching,” she said.

“Yeah, a real heartbreaker. What am I going to do with you, fella?”

“Can’t you just take him home with you?”

“I just might.”

The kitten leaned into his cheek and closed its eyes in a delirium of relief. Irene’s foot began to slip; the sand dissolved beneath her. She scrabbled a bit and the kitten opened its eyes to regard her.

“Oh,” Irene said.

The eyes were lighter than Irene expected, pale amber. The kitten blinked and gathered itself. In a single athletic spring, it soared from the man’s grasp to the sand next to Irene’s left foot and wound itself around her bare ankle.

“Well,” the man said.

“Oh, he tickles!”

“That’s gratitude for you.”

Irene choked back a giggle.

“Say. You all right? Let me give you a hand with that board.”

“No, thanks. I’m perfectly—perfectly fine—”

“You sure?”

Well. The board was heavy. The path was steep. The man was attractive. On the other hand, while he had that kind of face that stuck in your mind, it was also the kind of face that said he might be trouble. Irene couldn’t say why. He seemed straightforward enough. Kittens adored him. His chin was sturdy and all, his smile was sincere. His voice made an easy California rumble. Behind him, the waves roared in from across the Pacific, keeping time to the beat of the universe. The kitten rubbed its cheek on the round bone of her ankle.

“I guess I’m all right,” Irene said. She pulled her leg free from the kitten, swung forward again, overbalanced the eighty-pound surfboard on her shoulder and toppled back into the sand at Trouble’s feet.

Trouble had a name, it turned out. “Mallory,” he said, sticking out his hand, when Irene’s surfboard was safely secured to the roof of the Model T and they had both visited the huts to change into dry, respectable clothes. The kitten now nestled in the crook of Mr. Mallory’s arm, purring like a motorboat. Irene stuck out a finger and rubbed its forehead.

“Irene Foster,” she said.

“You know, you’re the only girl who comes out here mornings.”

“I’m no girl. Twenty years old last month.”

“Still and all. Who taught you to surf like that?”

“My father.”

“You don’t say. Surfs out here too?”