Page 13 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Rio

“WHERE ARE WE GOING , anyway?”

I’d spent all day trying not to think about this dinner or the hug last night, and in doing so, I forgot to ask where we were even going.

When Owen stepped out of his suite looking the way he did, I couldn’t wait to get to Walter.

But then Walter ditched us.

And here I was, feeling like I was on a date that wasn’t a date with a man who could undo me if I let him.

“Marlowe in Coral Bay.”

“Oh, I heard it’s good. Walter would have loved it.

” Coral Bay was where Ruby lived now, a short distance from Blueshore.

She was running the Coral Bay Inn that belonged to her family.

That was where my brother’s wedding had been held, and where Owen and I kissed for the last time the day after he had freed me from my virgin status. I wondered if he recalled that.

“He loves anything with valet parking and waiters who actually wear suits.” Owen smirked.

He probably didn’t remember .

I reached out and turned up the car radio before an uncomfortable silence settled between us. A familiar song played— Perfect by Alanis Morissette.

“Where did you go with your friend?” Owen asked while I tried hard not to notice the way his strong hands gripped the steering wheel, or the tattoos on his arms. His right arm was covered with a black mandala—geometric shapes and circles that stretched from his bicep to his elbow, down to the top of his forearm, leaving the rest of his forearm bare, the veins visible beneath his skin like winding rivers over muscle.

On the inner side of his left forearm, the Latin calligraphic sentences peered at me now.

“We went to the Shore Thing. It’s down by the beach in Blueshore. I went with Ruby.”

“Ruby’s the one with the thick curls and the retainer?”

I nodded. “Only now she has perfect teeth and gorgeous curls. You saw her last at Emma’s christening.”

“That was the same one? I’m impressed!”

“Then it was mutual.” I chuckled.

I was still reveling in how he looked at me on the stairs landing. This man was used to supermodels, but the way he’d looked at me ...

Even when my mom dubbed him Our Owen , he was never just Owen. He was the kind of guy you couldn’t help but notice, one you couldn’t take your eyes off or look away from, even when you wanted to.

I was pretty sure that for more than one, or two, or a dozen women, he was that guy they’d respond to in the middle of the night, no matter how much time had passed, no matter who they were with .

As for me, I knew then and I knew now—if I let myself be drawn in, Owen could be my one big, messy, unrequited love.

“Do you miss England?” I asked after a while, shifting the conversation before my thoughts spiraled too far. Reality check was due.

“Not so much England as being on the field. And if anything, I miss Italy more.”

“June’s husband is from Milano. He has an Inter Milan tattoo.”

“Wonderful team. They have very dedicated fans. I played for their rival, but they’re great.”

“What about the fans, the paparazzi, being recognized on the street, the groupies—all that? Don’t you miss it?” I asked because he kept confusing me. Was he Our Owen or Superstar Owen?

“Is this what you think of me?” He turned his head briefly to look at me.

“I figured it must be part of the fame.”

“It’s part of the game .”

“Still ...” I insisted.

“I miss the meaning of it—that I’m still something.”

I turned to stare at his profile. Did this man, who had everything, who was everything, really think he wasn’t because he couldn’t play?

“You still are, regardless,” I said.

Owen glanced at me with an intensity that cut through the air between us .

“We have soccer here too, you know,” I added quickly, steering the conversation back to his profession, away from what he meant to me regardless of it.

His gaze back on the road, Owen smiled. “The MLS is for footballers what Florida is for old New Yorkers. It’s where they go to retire.”

Entering Coral Bay, he U-turned into an open parking spot in front of the restaurant. “Walter would have complained about not using the valet.”

I had to look away from the way his forearms flexed.

“See? You couldn’t do this in Europe without paparazzi,” I pointed out when we stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Even Leo Messi, football’s Pope, gets to walk around Miami unbothered,” Owen chuckled.

Inside, we were led to a table by the window. The restaurant had a warm ambiance, with golden light bouncing off the wooden panels, and the low hum of conversation served as a cozy backdrop.

“I watched your tutorials,” Owen said after we settled in.

“You didn’t!”

“I did. Found you on YouTube.”

“You’re not the target audience.” I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I really didn’t want him to see these.

“I was curious. Besides, I wanted to cheer you on. I really like them. You’re funny, creative, and knowledgeable.”

“Thanks.” I lowered my gaze to the menu. It’s not a date, Rio.

“It’s a great way to market the shop, too. I heard you opened a branch in Wayford. Is that how it started? ”

“June’s mostly in the new branch. I manage the one in Riviera View. I started the videos for marketing; I figured that, at most, people wouldn’t watch them. But I’m also doing them for myself. I wanted to talk about my products apart from the shop and also ...”

“Also what?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “You did pretty great on your socials.” Having a pretty face probably didn’t hurt.

“You know it wasn’t me, right?” Owen replied. “There’s a nice PR guy running it all. I just take pictures when he asks me to.”

“Oh, haha, I didn’t know. But it makes sense.”

“So what’s the also about?” He saw through my deflection.

I took a deep breath. “It’s not easy for me to speak in front of an audience, so I thought this could be a way to practice with an invisible one.

And after I broke up with Bradley, I kind of needed that.

” I said too much, and being aware of it mid-speech, I got stuck more than I usually did with Owen.

Owen reached across the table and touched my hand where it rested on the tablecloth. “I love that.”

I cleared my throat.

“I love that you’ve never let yourself not speak up. I remember in school assemblies, you insisted on raising your hand before anyone else.”

“That’s because I had a lot of speech therapy. One thing I learned was that initiating was better than waiting to be addressed. That way, I could choose my words beforehand. And I wanted to prove to myself that fear wouldn’t silence me.”

“I love it even more now.” His voice was raspy. And there it was. That soft gaze, the secret smile. Different from his regular ones.

“You don’t give up either. For you, any obstacle is a medal opportunity,” I expelled.

“It kind of is.”

“Not everyone sees it that way, you know.”

“I kick a football, you kick ass.” He removed his hand from mine.

“Kickass. You could have chosen a word that’s easier for me to say.” I laughed.

We had just placed our orders—braised short ribs with mashed potatoes and grilled vegetables for Owen and grilled salmon with steamed vegetables for me—when a waiter arrived with our drinks. As he set them down, a man at the next table did a double take, eyes widening as he got up.

“Wonder Wheaton! The best right-midfield attacker,” he blurted out, half-addressing the waiter, who paused mid-motion, clearly caught off guard. “The best leagues in Europe, man. Championship League! La Liga! Bundesliga! Serie A!” He now stood next to our waiter.

Owen exhaled softly, a familiar mix of amusement and patience settling over his features.

The waiter glanced between us, clearly having no clue who Owen was, but the fan was undeterred.

“Seriously, I’m a huge fan. Huge! I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt. But I mean, UEFA Super Cup, three-time Champions League winner, World Cup. You won all of them.”

“Not all. Not the World Cup,” Owen corrected, his voice calm.

The man waved that off like it was a minor technicality. “You played in it. Get that knee fixed, I’m rooting for England to finally make it past the quarter-finals. You were the MVP there, just so you know.”

Owen gave a small nod, his expression polite, but a darker cloud crossed his face at the mention of the cup.

The waiter, sensing his moment to escape, took a step back. “I’ll bring your food out shortly,” he said before disappearing toward the kitchen.

The fan, meanwhile, bent next to Owen and snapped a selfie before heading back to his table.

Owen and I exchanged a look, our lips pressed to hold in a laugh, brows lifting in a well-that-just-happened kind of way.

“Wow! I can’t imagine what it’s like for you over there, where everyone knows you,” I said.

Owen seemed to hold back a beaming smile, but some of it gleamed in his eyes. The deep blue was somehow bluer. “In small doses like this it’s not bad, but it can get rough and ugly.”

“Women throwing their underwear at you like a rock star?” I taunted—myself probably, more than him.

He bunched his lips and kind of side-nodded in a you can say so . “It’s mostly men and boys. Asking for selfies, not throwing knickers at me.” He laughed .

Would it be terrible to admit that the way he used the British knickers created a little puddle in mine?

The plates arrived a minute later, and we dug in.

“Are you dating anyone?” Owen asked between bites.

I arched a brow. “Why are you asking?”

“Just ... catching up.”

I shrugged, spearing a piece of zucchini. “No. I went on dates since Bradley and I broke up, but nothing that made me want to text my best friend in all caps.”

Owen’s amused glance drew a chuckle out of me.