Page 29 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Owen

THE BELL ABOVE THE door jingled as I stepped into the shop after my physiotherapy session.

The scent of warm vanilla, cinnamon, herbs, and health wrapped around me like a welcome embrace.

The place was cozy, rustic with calm colors of sage, lavender, and wood.

But there was something else. Something weightless in my chest, a quiet hum of my own.

The woman behind the counter.

Last night and this morning wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t even just a reunion of bodies after years. It was more—so much more that I hadn’t let myself name it yet, because putting words to it might make it real, and reality wasn’t my friend these days.

Rio was typing something on the computer that seemed to be the cash register. When she looked up and saw me, her lips curled into a smile, one that was effortless and unguarded. One just for me.

“You actually found the place on your own,” she teased.

I smirked, leaning on the counter. “I recognize it from watching all your videos. ”

Her brows lifted, amused. “You watched them all? The shop’s account too?”

“Of course.”

The warmth in her gaze deepened.

“I also needed more of these.” I reached for the protein bars in a rack on the counter. These were the bars she had left for me with a note on the first night I’d arrived. “No wonder they’re popular with athletes who shop here,” I quoted her note.

Rio huffed a chuckle but before she could respond, the door at the back swung open.

A man stepped out. Younger than me, he was tall, broad, and handsome. But something about his clothes and the way he carried himself gave him away—an unmistakable Italian. I had lived there long enough to know.

His gaze landed on me, held for a second. Something in his features changed, like a glint of recognition that hadn’t quite settled into certainty.

He looked again, more intently this time.

Then his eyes widened. “Aspetta ...” he muttered in Italian.

I knew that look. The double-take, the moment of realization.

Before I could say anything, Rio stepped in. “Owen, this is Angelo Marchesi. He’s June’s husband and they live above the shop.”

Angelo’s eyes fixed on me as he shook my hand. A firm grip, assessing. Then his head tilted. “Sei il Wheaton di Milano?” You’re Wheaton from Milan ?

I grinned. “ Ero il Wheaton di Milano.” I was Wheaton from Milan.

He let out a short laugh, switching easily to English. “You played for the wrong team, but I’ll forgive you.”

I smirked. “You’re an Inter fan.”

“The only kind of Milano fan worth being,” he shot back in an Italian accent. Then he shook his head, clearly still impressed. “I watched you play.” He turned to Rio, motioning toward me. “Do you know what kind of player you have standing in front of you?”

Rio’s lips quirked, her eyes smiled, but she remained quiet, watching us.

Angelo didn’t need encouragement. “Fast. Precise. The top teams in Europe. That left foot—” He stopped. “I knew you were half-American but I never dreamed ...”

“Yes, I’m from here.”

“I’m sure you have teams lining up for you now, eh?”

The smile I gave him was automatic. The kind I’d given in a thousand interviews, easy, practiced.

But inside, something twisted.

Because the truth was, yes, there were offers. But not from the top clubs. Not from the ones that mattered. I could probably still play, but not at the level I once had.

Angelo looked at me, waiting. “So? You’re going back soon?”

The question hit harder than I expected.

Before last night, before Rio, the answer had been clear: Of course . I’d go back. I’d fight for it. No matter what it took.

But now, the stakes were different. Everything was different .

It wasn’t just about my knee anymore.

It was about her .

I hesitated.

And in that hesitation, I saw Rio’s expression shift. Just a flicker, but enough. Enough for her to notice. Enough for her to see .

I forced a quick smile, reaching for something neutral. “We’ll see. First, I have to fix this knee.”

Angelo nodded like that made sense, but I felt Rio’s gaze on me.

The bell jingled again, cutting through the moment, and a customer stepped inside. The conversation broke naturally as Rio turned to greet the new arrival.

Angelo shook my hand again. “Good luck,” he said, gave me one more smile of appreciation, and moved toward the back.

I stayed where I was for one beat longer.

Because for the first time since my injury, the future wasn’t just one path stretching ahead.

It was a choice.

And I had no fucking idea how to make it.