Page 10 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)
Owen
AFTER DROPPING WALTER at the Blueshore Seniors’ Club, I came back home to find Rio’s car parked outside. The house was quiet, but her voice drifted from the garage.
Inside, she sat among jars, bottles, and bags of ingredients, still in her work clothes under an apron that tied around her waist, hands moving with practiced ease—Demi Moore-pottering-in- Ghost -like. Her phone stood on a tripod between the entrance and the table.
I knew I should’ve stepped back as soon as she hesitated in responding, but I felt anchored to my spot at the door. Like I was caught in the pull of a magnetic field.
“I took over the space, but if you need the garage for your car, I can clear it.”
“What? No. I don’t need it.”
“But if you do—”
“I don’t.” I glanced around. “You’re putting it to great use. You’re making all these yourself?”
“Yeah. They’re organized by product type, then by scent. I sometimes run out of labels—” she pointed to a sage and lavender sticker roll on the table “—so I group them like this. That way, I don’t have to smell them to know what’s what.”
“So you smell good all day?” I blurted out. Rio wasn’t supposed to be on the receiving end of my automatic flirting.
She chuckled. “More like wax and essential oils.”
“Like strawberries,” I mumbled.
She tilted her head. “I didn’t use strawberries.”
“You’re the expert,” I said, but I knew what I remembered.
“How was physiotherapy?”
“Painful. So it works.”
Rio laughed. “I’m sorry. But after watching Ted Lasso , I figured if you could handle those ice tubs, you can do anything.”
“All athletes use them. You liked Ted Lasso ?”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “Who are you most like?”
“Who do you think I’m like?” I straightened up from leaning against the doorframe.
She tapped her chin and squinted her eyes theatrically. “There’s a bit of Jamie Tartt in you.”
I groaned. “And I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. The media compares me to Olivier Giroud.”
“You’re about the same age, and I read that Jamie is in part based on him, so ...” She spread her hands like she’d just won an argument.
My smartwatch beeped. “I have to get Walter soon. He said an hour playing backgammon there was enough.”
“He needs to get out more.”
“So do I. Which is why I’m taking you both out to dinner tomorrow night. Deal? ”
She hesitated. “Um ... sure. Deal.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, IN my suite, I pulled up Rio’s YouTube channel. It wasn’t easy to find.
“Disclaimer: if your video seems to halt, it’s not a problem with your internet connection, it’s me,” she said at the start of a tutorial titled Cinnamon and Why You Want It on Your Body.
I didn’t know about cinnamon, but I suddenly craved strawberries.
Her channel had fifty-three subscribers. Eighteen videos. A few hundred views per video. Dozens of likes. Several great comments.
And a few that made my blood boil.
“Can’t even get a sentence out properly. Maybe just type it next time. Not everyone’s meant to be on camera.”
“Painful to watch. Took you long enough to say five words. Spit it out already.”
I wasn’t a violent man, but I was fearless on the field. And right now, I had two urges—one, to kick whoever wrote this into next week. And the other, to hug Rio.
I couldn’t do the first.
And I wasn’t supposed to do the second.
“AND OUR HOMECOMING King is ... no surprises here: Owen Wheaton!” the announcer declared, and the hall erupted in cheers. “Please come up on stage. Your Homecoming Queen is waiting.”
Simon clapped me on the back twice—firm enough to push me forward. “Just go and be done with it. It’s not that bad. And Tiffany’s not that bad either. She’s probably over you never asking her out and preferring to go stag.” His amused grin made me scoff.
Next to him, Nicole looked less entertained. “They voted for a king who’s about to abdicate and leave the country. And don’t get me started on this queen.”
It was around the time I’d told them that I was going back to England with my newly divorced mom. “I’ll leave the crown to you, Nicole. Promise,” I said.
After the obligatory dance with the queen, I broke away and went looking for Simon and the others. I couldn’t find them, not even outside, so I headed back into the hall.
Scanning the dance floor from the sidelines, I squeezed my way through the packed crowd. I stopped to chat with a few people, asked if they’d seen Simon, and realized I’d nearly circled the entire room.
“Waiting for the Ma-Ma-Ma-Macarena?”
The voice caught my attention. A guy I recognized—a sophomore—was smirking at his friend, who was also wearing a light blue tux and a distinct look of I-couldn’t-find-a-date.
“Or maybe the Ca-Ca-Ca-Caramba?” the second tux guy said. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have a date.”
They were standing at the edge of the dance floor, and when I pushed through the crowd, I saw exactly who they were talking to.
“I don’t repeat syllables,” Rio replied, holding her ground. The short skirt of her navy-blue halter dress swayed as she spoke. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t be an ‘M.’” She paused briefly as the sentence was strewn with velar sounds, her face tightening as she worked through the words.
I stepped forward.
“May I have this dance?” I held out my hand.
Rio blinked at me, then glanced over her shoulder as if checking whether I was speaking to someone behind her.
I raised my eyebrows and lowered my chin in a small come-on nudge.
She pointed at herself and mouthed, “Me?”
“You,” I mouthed back.
She hesitated, glancing from side to side, then finally slid her hand into mine. It was small, warm, a little clammy.
I led her onto the dance floor and stopped, turning to face her. As the opening chords of Iris by Goo Goo Dolls filled the room, I pulled her into the slow rhythm.
“Where’s your queen?” she asked, the q sticking slightly in her throat.
“I came stag. A bunch of us did. Simon’s the only one with a girl.”
She smiled, her eyes skimming the room instead of settling on mine.
I didn’t want to ask her the same question or let her know that I’d heard those idiots mocking her. I just wanted this Homecoming to be something good for her to remember.
The way she fit in my arms stirred something in me—something unfamiliar, something I couldn’t pin down, or name, or intended to unpack. This wasn’t about me. It was about her. I’d do this for any of my friend’s sisters who’d been insulted, I told myself.
But you wouldn’t enjoy it as much, a small voice in my head pointed out.
My palm rested on the bare skin of her back, warm and soft, sending a current up my arm that I had no business feeling.
“Where’s Ruby?” I asked instead, looking for something—anything—to say.
“She’s busy with the organizing committee. Probably the best excuse for not having a date.”
“I’ll be your date.”
She huffed out a scoff. “Royalty and commoners unite?”
I laughed. I loved her sarcasm and that sweet scent that clung to her—maybe her perfume, maybe that pink gloss she was wearing.
“That’s okay. I’ll go find Ruby and the rest,” she said, her smiling expression had that aroma of I know what you’re trying to do, and you don’t have to .
“Okay, not a date,” I said. “But if you want to dance, drink, or if anyone gives you a hard time, you find me, yeah?” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “Or Simon.” Didn’t want to sound like a complete douche.
“I just want you to know who I am," the lead singer repeated as I was still holding Rio close, and somehow, the lyrics lodged themselves in my mind—familiar yet making sense in a different way.
I SHUT MY PHONE, LEFT it on my bed, and stepped onto the landing. Rio’s door was a few feet away. Without stopping, I knocked on it. If I couldn’t succumb to my urge to kick the assholes who were out there making her feel bad, I could at least act on my other urge.
Rio appeared at the doorway, wearing light brown lounge pants and a white tee. Her hair was wet, still unbrushed.
“Hey. Is everything okay? Walter?” The frown line between her brows deepened.
I placed my hand on her forearm and pulled her gently into my arms. Holding her close, I inhaled, catching the fresh, sweet, fruity scent of her. Definitely strawberry.
“Everything’s fine,” I murmured. “I just wanted to say ... thanks for taking care of him.” Thank God for the available excuse.
“Thanks,” I repeated, letting go and watching her confused expression.
“You’re welcome,” she mumbled.
I nodded once, turned, and retreated to my room before I did something really stupid.