Page 1 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Rio

“SO, NOTHING?” MY NAILS burrowed into my phone-free palm. I still held on to hope that somehow, this time, the answer would be different.

“Nothing new.” The real-estate agent’s irritation on the other end of the line was loud and clear. “What were you expecting to find with your budget?”

Some common courtesy maybe?

“The one on Canal Street is still available,” he continued.

“Canal Street?” The C stuck in my throat.

Phone conversations had always been the bane of my stuttery existence, though thankfully, technology rendered most of them redundant.

Pushy and patronizing people were a special breed that exacerbated the problem.

“No wonder it’s still free.” I exchanged ‘available’ for ‘free’—which was easier for me to pronounce—almost without noticing.

“Not free. Available . Properties like that don’t come free.”

“That’s what I meant. ”

“That’s what you stuttered,” the man mumbled as if to himself, but I could have sworn he did it loud enough for me to hear.

“Excuse me?” Yep, two throaty syllables back-to-back.

I’d usually say ‘pardon’ instead—but his rudeness had pushed my bitch button.

Now I twistedly relished in making him wait for me to utter the word.

“It’s a moldy dump, that’s why it’s available.

Great if you want to die of fungal spores,” I let my stutter party.

“Sorry we weren’t able to help you with this budget. If anything new comes up, we’ll be in touch, Ms. Maddigan.”

That didn’t sound like an apology.

“Please don’t bother.” I pressed hard on the red key to end the call; the only plus of old technology was hanging up on someone with a bang.

I finished packing the gift basket I’d begun before the call and tied the pink bow around the handle.

Ten more to go.

June’s Rain Health Shop received a bridal order, and my hand-made products starred in it.

I switched my phone’s camera to video mode and started filming as I packed another basket. Promoting health-products gift bundles for bridesmaids was my latest marketing idea—and so far, it was working.

Being busy kept my looming anxiety at bay. If I didn’t find a place soon—somewhere in the Riviera Shores area—I’d have to share a house with Owen when he returned to the U.S. And I couldn’t do that to myself.

Owen Wheaton .

My brother’s best friend .

The stuff wet dreams were made of for millions of women around the world.

My former crush. My once-upon-a-time protector.

My first.

“Rio, I finished restocking the teas. Can I take five?” Dharma, our new-ish employee appeared from one of the aisles.

“Sure.”

“No luck?” She scrunched her nose.

“Nope.”

“You’ve only been looking for a month. Took me six to find my place.” She smiled encouragingly then disappeared through the back.

Except for June, my friend and the shop’s owner, and Ruby, my best friend, no one knew why I was so keen on moving out of Owen’s house, where I had been living for the past year, taking care of his grandfather.

Now that Big-Soccer-Star Owen was coming back from Europe, I wanted out.

I needed out.

My mouth ran dry just at the thought of sharing space with him.

I couldn’t move in with my mom if I wanted to maintain my sanity. My brother had no space for me. And Ruby’s place was too out of the way to drive to and from every day.

With Dharma out of sight, I filmed and narrated our fully stocked shelves.

“We have new tastes and old favorites. At June’s Rain, we take your health seriously.

” I then shifted the camera to my face. “And if you happen to know of an available apartment in the vicinity, stop by our counter.” I winked and shut the phone down.

I had initiated the video marketing, though watching myself stumble over words wasn’t easy. But gone were the days when getting stuck meant my face twitching. Gone were the days I’d been mocked for it. Gone were the days Owen could steal my heart just by coming to my rescue.

Owen.

He could effortlessly charm your heart away and leave you searching for it, probably for the rest of your life. And you couldn’t even be mad at him, because he never meant to steal it. He really didn’t. Women just gave it away.

At thirteen, and with two years difference between us, I had personally witnessed him charming the hearts—and panties, too—off several girls. Even if the actual panty drop or heartbreak hadn’t happened in front of my eyes, the melting of both had.

Time hadn’t dulled his charm, looks, or effortless charisma.

At thirty-seven, he was recently crowned one of the hottest bachelors in the European Champions League by the British tabloids.

Which, in my book, translated to: no longer with his supermodel girlfriend.

The same one he’d brought to my niece’s christening three years ago.

Back then, I’d been immune, kind of—courtesy of Bradley, my then-boyfriend.

Still, the sweat stains at the armpits of my dress had been a dead giveaway of Owen’s effect on me when he flashed that smile.

The one he’d always saved just for me. The same smile that had lit up his face—and my life—through the toughest part of my teenage years .

He had hugged me before introducing me to whats-her-name who had legs up to here, saying enthusiastically into my hair, “Rio Mio, how have you been?”

“Great,” I had mumbled red-faced and introduced Bradley to him.

“Nice to meet you, Brad.” Owen gave him a vigorous handshake.

I cringed inside, knowing what was coming.

“Bradley, as my mother named me,” my ex said.

“Not arguing with moms. Right, Rio?” Owen said with a smile.

“That’s the big star?” Bradley asked when Owen moved away to greet my mom.

“Looks like a common British soccer hooligan. And what’s with the accent?

I thought he was British. And that lady friend of his.

I’m disappointed in your brother if that’s his best friend.

Show me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are. ”

That was the sentence I threw in his face when I broke up with him two years later.

And now Owen’s knee injury cost him the season and sent him home “to convalesce,” as the tabloids called it, in his “home away from home, with his family.”

His family these days consisted of his eighty-year-old paternal grandfather, Walter—my housemate.

“You’re leaving me all alone?” Walter had exagge-ranted when I had told him it was time for me to look for a place of my own.

“You won’t be alone.” I chuckled. “Your grandson will be here, and he’ll find you suitable help. I’m out working most days, and you deserve a real caregiver, not a stand-in. ”

“I like having you here. My only grandson visits once in a blue moon, and to clear his guilty conscience, he hired a few old hags to ‘take care’ of me.” Walter scoffed, air-quoting the last part.

“He moved to Europe because that’s where his career is. He’s famous and successful and you’re proud of him, Walter! And he hired trained nurses for you, but you drove six of them away.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he groused. “I don’t need a nurse! You work in a health shop and you’re always making me eat healthy and exercise, just like a nurse, and you don’t see me complain.”

I laughed. The sweet old grouch never stopped complaining. But we got along great, though living here was supposed to be an interim solution after I had moved out of Bradley’s house.

Walter was independent, still gardened and exercised, but he needed someone to keep him company, help him with his shopping, and keep the big house in shape in between the cleaning service’s weekly arrival.

In return, he taught me to play backgammon and how to win arguments by turning his hearing aid all the way down.

“What will you do if Owen brings that supermodel with him?” June asked me only yesterday.

“It’s none of my business if he does or doesn’t,” I replied.

Now, with my hope to find a place killed by the realtor, it became a burning issue.

I hoped he would bring one.

That would make it fucked-uply easier for me than a single Owen .

Knowing him for so long, I believed my heart was well-shielded, but I didn’t want to put it to the test. Especially not when I was going through a Sahara Desert dry spell.

“What did Simon say about the girlfriend status?” June asked.

“I won’t ask my brother, and Walter just cranked that he didn’t know, didn’t care, and that it didn’t matter because Owen would be gone before we can say Marilyn Monroe.” To Walter, she was the only supermodel fathomable.

He was probably right. About Owen going away soon after. He spent most of his life away from this town, to which he had moved at fifteen from England with his British mom and repatriated failed businessman dad.

Maybe I shouldn’t stress that much after all. Maybe I could go through with it with no drama and no scars—my preferred way to live my life.

Besides, after years of models, Mr. Jersey Number 7 probably wouldn’t look twice my way anyway.