Page 16 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Rio

HE WANTED TO KISS ME .

He was going to.

I could see it in his eyes, in the way they locked with mine, then trailed down to my lips.

I wanted him to.

I wanted to be that brave Rio I’d been sixteen years ago, several men ago, a few heartaches ago.

But I wasn’t her anymore.

Back then, I thought I could take what I wanted and walk away unscathed.

But I wasn’t nineteen anymore, and Owen wasn’t just any man.

And though I knew that just like before, he’d be leaving again—I’d seen it in his face at dinner when that fan hovered, the way reality pulled him away from the moment—I couldn’t bring myself to reach for what I craved.

Not this time.

At thirty-five, I had finally learned to control my speech, to breathe through my stutter. But I’d lost the reckless belief that love wouldn’t break me. My heart should be off the table. Even if my body screamed with longing for his touch .

“Good night,” I repeated, my voice steadier than I felt, and walked into my room.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I leaned against it for a moment, listening, wondering if Owen was still standing in the hallway. Wondering what the worst thing that could happen if I reopened the door and just went for it.

But I already knew the answer.

“WHO WON LAST NIGHT ?” I asked as I entered the kitchen. Walter sat at the table, looking far too refreshed for someone who had stayed up late playing a game. His oatmeal and nuts sat untouched, and he was skimming the paper, hovering over his breakfast like he wasn’t quite ready to eat.

“Who do you think won?” he shot me a wry look and took a first bite.

I scoffed. “Walter! Did you at least offer her some snacks? The sink was empty this morning. Not even a glass of water in it.”

“Eh. She brought one of them Stacy Cups or whatever you call them. Talked endlessly about how her skin looked young because she kept herself hydrated. Fishing for compliments.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re impossible, I swear. And it’s called a Stanley Cup.”

“Speaking of cups, Mr. Cup Winner is still asleep.” Walter smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “How was your dinner? ”

I took my coffee mug and sat across from him at the kitchen table, stirring a spoon through my cereal.

Outside, the sky was an endless stretch of blue, and through the open window, the scent of damp earth and sea salt mixed with the citrus of Walter’s garden.

A breeze carried the sound of rustling leaves, the occasional trill of a bird.

“It was nice,” I said around a mouthful, glad for the excuse to keep my mouth busy.

Walter grunted, clearly unimpressed. “Nice?”

I ignored him, taking another bite.

“I’ve gotta run,” I said after a beat. “I won’t be back late today. I have a batch of—”

“Owen said he’d drop me off at the club on the way to his physio,” Walter interrupted.

I nodded. “Great. Be nice to him, Walter. He’s having a hard time with this injury and ... you know they suspended his contract.”

“I’m always nice.”

I chuckled, patted his shoulder, and got up.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON , I pulled up beside the house and stepped out, unloading a crate of glass candle jars from my trunk.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden light over the driveway.

As I carried the crate toward the garage, I noticed the door to the storage room next to it was open, the light on.

Peeking inside, I took in the view of new gym equipment neatly arranged—machines for arms, legs, and core work, a bench press, resistance bands, even a treadmill. A small shelf lined with supplements, and a few neatly folded towels.

The thought of Owen, of his body, his strength, sent a coil of heat through me.

I blushed at the sight of two orange foam rollers stacked next to a soccer ball.

Inside the house, I found Walter in his room, watching The View.

“Want to take a stroll outside?” I asked, hoping an outing would spare me meeting Owen now. “It’s still nice. We can go down to the beach.”

“Owen’s at the beach,” Walter said, frowning at the TV. “Said he was going to wash the sweat from his workout. He installed an entire gym at the back. Takes the doctors’ orders so seriously, he ends up pushing himself harder than they recommend. Who washes off in the ocean?”

The visual of Owen, muscles flexing, waves licking at his bare skin, made that coil of heat burn in me. I could use cold ocean water now. “Must be a European thing,” I muttered, attempting nonchalance.

Walter hummed. “Let’s go. Better than listening to these idiots.” He turned off the TV and rose to his feet.

I was supposed to work. I needed to work.

But the beach suddenly felt like a tide pulling me in against my better judgment.

The house sat on a sprawling plot of land, but instead of a pool, like the McMansions in this neighborhood had, Owen opted for a large, open yard and Walter used it for vegetable and flower beds that stretched toward the back fence.

The path to the beach wound between a few neighboring houses, shaded by palms and bursts of wildflowers.

I often took this walk alone, sometimes with Walter.

I spotted him before he saw us. He was playing soccer with two kids, his broad back and shoulders bare to the sun, his skin kissed golden. The ball moved effortlessly between his feet, his movements fluid and precise.

Owen turned, and the sight of his sculpted chest and abs stole the air from my lungs.

He waved at us and continued playing.

Walter stopped to chat with a neighbor, settling onto a bench beside him, and I continued watching the game, kicking off my shoes and letting the sand sift between my toes.

The kids eventually ran off, scooping up the sneakers they’d used as goalposts. I wondered if they even knew who they’d been playing with.

Owen approached me, stopping just short of too close. With a flick of his foot, he sent the ball rolling toward me.

“Ever play?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

“Not really,” I admitted. “Just the mandatory passing drills in school.”

I kicked the ball back, landing it right at his feet.

He let out a soft laugh. “Maybe I should call a scout.”

I scoffed, but the next time he passed it to me, I met him halfway, nudging it back with more force. “Doesn’t your knee suffer?”

“A little,” he kicked the ball back to me.

His gym shorts revealed the strong, muscled legs I was used to seeing in the media. A faint, long scar ran along his left knee, barely visible through the hair on his legs, while a more recent one marked his right.

I tried not to stare, but on the left side of his chest, I noticed a tattoo I hadn’t seen before—a soccer ball at the center, a heartbeat line spiking through it. The game was the pulse in this man’s veins.

Above it, a simple 7 was etched—his position on the field, his jersey number, his identity.

I focused on the real ball and kicked it a bit harder.

We found a rhythm, the ball moving between us, the sand shifting warm and cold beneath my feet, the breeze teasing strands of hair across my face.

The sun dipped lower, tinting the sky in hues of amber and lavender.

I didn’t realize how close we’d gotten until my shoulder bumped his chest, then, in another maneuver, we collided, chest to chest. His hands caught my waist, steadying me, but he didn’t let go right away.

His warmth seeped through my shirt, his grip was firm, possessive in a way that made my pulse stutter.

I glanced up, breathless. The scent of his body filled whatever air I managed to draw.

“You’re a natural,” he murmured, his breath mixing with mine. His fingers flexed at my waist, branding heat into my skin.

Maybe it was only me, but I felt the ocean air thrumming in the little space that was left between our bodies.

I licked the salt from my lips, watching Owen’s gaze drop to my mouth .

“It’s dinner time,” Walter’s voice cut through the moment, as if ringing from far away.

Owen took a step back, dropping his arm from my waist as if he’d just realized I was burning him. Or maybe it was the other way around.

He turned to Walter, voice smooth. “Frittata sound good?”

As we walked back, Owen slightly limping though trying to act as if he didn’t, I thought about calling the real estate agency. Looking up more listings.

I had to.

Because this?

I couldn’t do this anymore.

OWEN PULLED A TEE OVER his head before heading to the kitchen, the soft gray cotton stretching across his chest, shoulders, and biceps, highlighting every movement beneath it.

I, on the other hand, was still in my work clothes—a pair of dark blue jeans and a sleeveless green blouse that smelled faintly of lavender and wax. I tugged at the hem self-consciously as I set the table.

Walter settled into his usual spot while Owen moved around the kitchen with natural efficiency, cracking eggs, whisking them with a practiced hand, and slicing up vegetables. The air filled with the rich scent of olive oil heating in the pan .

I watched him from my seat, pretending I wasn’t tracking the way his muscles flexed with each movement, the way his shirt shifted just enough to hint at the body I’d been pressed against less than an hour ago.

As we ate, my phone buzzed.

Simon.

I answered, already knowing what he wanted. “Hey.”

“Don’t forget, you’re babysitting tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Bring Owen. The girls are asking about him.”

I glanced at Owen, who was finishing the last bite of his meal. “You sure? He probably has—”

“I’ll come,” Owen said, easily guessing Simon’s request.

Simon overheard and chuckled. “Good. And tell him not to worry, he doesn’t have to bring presents.”

I repeated that to Owen, who jokingly sighed. “Too late, already bought them.”

Simon laughed. “By the way, Nicole invited you all for dinner.” He then went on to ensure we secured the date.

I hummed a response, but my focus had shifted—to Owen, to the way he leaned back in his chair, studying me like he was trying to piece something together.

Maybe he was.

Because something had changed in the last two days.

I could feel it in my skin, in my breath, in the spaces where he was too close and not close enough .

I forced down the knot in my throat.

And wondered how much longer I could keep pretending nothing was happening.