Page 30 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Rio

STEAM CURLED AROUND us as water cascaded over our skin, heat sinking into my body, relaxing me in a way that had nothing to do with the shower itself.

It was him—his presence, his touch, the way his body fit against mine, solid and familiar, like something I’d known forever but was only now allowing myself to claim.

I leaned my head back against his hard chest, letting his hands slide down my stomach before I caught them, lacing our fingers together.

“We’re going to be late,” I murmured, my voice languid, my body still aching from the way we fucked against the warm, wet tiles a few minutes ago—my back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, his palms gripping me tight, the sound of us echoing in the steamy air.

His lips skimmed the curve of my shoulder. “I don’t care.”

I did. And didn’t.

It had only been a few days, but already, this thing between us was overpowering.

I tried to pretend I could be like Ruby—treating it casually, taking what I could from the moment without a care for the future, without a single gash to my heart.

But nights tangled in my sheets, hands roaming, mouths claiming, eyes locking, words whispered in the dark—and I was already too far gone, craving him like something vital, an addiction I couldn’t quit.

During the day, we barely managed to keep our hands off each other around Walter. And every time we were apart, I told myself I could stop this anytime, that I could go back to before without feeling the withdrawal in my body or heart.

Sure, I could go just one night of sleep, just one evening without reaching for him.

I just hadn’t tested that theory yet.

Because then he’d show up at my door. Or I’d be the one reaching first.

Under the warm water now, I turned in his arms, my palms flat on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingertips.

His gaze dropped to my mouth, his grip on my hips tightening, and I almost let myself fall into it again—into him, into this need that didn’t seem to have an end. But I forced myself to step back, reaching to turn off the tap.

“We’re going to be late anyway, might as well ...” he half-whispered against my skin.

I smirked. “That’s what I said ten minutes ago.”

He grumbled when I shut off the faucet, but stepped out and grabbed a towel, ruffling it through his hair.

I wrapped mine around me, watching as he moved around my bathroom in a way that made something tight unfurl in my chest .

This felt too natural, too good, too easy.

So why were we keeping it a secret? Why didn’t I dare tell Ruby? And why was I nervous to see my brother tonight?

And why couldn’t I stop thinking about Angelo’s questions?

It’d been a few days since that conversation, but it was still there, needling at the back of my mind.

The way Angelo had reacted to recognizing Owen—it had slammed football-icon Owen right back into the picture.

For a moment there, he wasn’t the man who had touched every part of me the night before and that very morning, the one whose breath, and body, and words had wrapped around me, sank inside me.

He had become Owen Wonder Wheaton the star again—the way he was there , something that was easy to forget here .

And then there was the way Owen had hesitated when Angelo asked if he was going back.

Back there .

Owen Wonder Wheaton wasn’t one to falter. He always knew what he wanted and exactly how to get it. But in that split second, I saw it—the hesitation.

Not because he didn’t want to go back. Because I knew he did . Not because he couldn’t go back. I knew he could . His knee was probably better than he let on.

And I wondered ... if I hadn’t been standing right there, would his answer have been different? Would he have said yes without hesitation?

That was the last thing I wanted to be—the reason he felt torn, to stand between him and his dreams .

I hadn’t asked about it later. I didn’t want to hear the answer. And I was too busy pretending this wasn’t real.

I needed to be more Ruby about it—take this for what it was, no expectations, no strings. To remind myself that commitment wasn’t something I could expect.

I slipped into a wine-red dress, towel-drying my hair as Owen pulled on a pair of dark designer jeans and a fresh charcoal button-down. He rolled up the sleeves, his gaze raking over me, dark with intent—like he’d rather be stripping me down than heading out to dinner.

I could relate. I already wanted to unbutton that shirt myself.

But we had to go.

Nicole and Simon were expecting us for dinner. Walter was probably ready and waiting downstairs.

And my mom would be attending, too.

Simon’s house was already loud as the three of us walked in.

Emma was running around the dining room, giggling as she weaved between the chairs, escaping her sister who was trying to get something the little one had taken from her.

Nicole was in the kitchen with my mom, and I could hear them ordering each other around.

Walter shook Simon’s hand, patted the girls’ heads as they whizzed by him, and seated himself in front of the TV.

Owen and Simon were chatting when my mom entered the living room, and her face lit up.

In a pair of real vintage mom jeans and a pretty white camisole instead of her usual tour tees from bands half the table wouldn’t recognize, she looked younger than her years. I always wondered if she dated. She never spoke about it or brought someone for us to meet.

“Oh, hi. Take these, Rio.” She placed a stack of plates in my hands and rushed to Owen. “Owen! Look at you, so handsome as ever.” She cupped his face like she had raised him right alongside us. “Still breaking hearts, hmm?”

I barely refrained from rolling my eyes as Owen chuckled, stepping into her embrace.

She turned to Simon. “I shouldn’t have listened to you. I should have made his favorite.”

Owen grinned. “You already did, didn’t you?”

She swatted his arm. “I might have.” Then, with a glance at Simon, she added, “Our Owen should eat well when he’s home. Especially injured.”

Our Owen.

I swallowed the knot that was forming in my stomach from the moment we got into the car, plastering a smile as I prepared to set the table.

And then—because apparently, I wasn’t already on edge—she said it.

“How’s that gorgeous English girlfriend of yours? Bambi, wasn’t it?”

My stomach plummeted.

Across the room, Owen’s easy smile didn’t falter, but something shifted in his eyes, barely noticeable. “This isn’t a history lesson, Paula,” he replied Owen-like, rubbing the back of his neck.

My mother frowned. “Oh, that’s a shame. She seemed lovely. ”

Simon gave Owen a look I couldn’t quite read, but whatever it was, Owen ignored it, turning back to my mom with another smooth, effortless grin. “I think you wouldn’t have approved of her taste in music. Let’s just say that Duran Duran wasn’t on her playlist. At all.”

Simon and I both burst out laughing.

God, this man. He knew exactly what to say and to whom.

My mom patted his arm. “Then good riddance. You deserve the best, sweetheart.”

I turned toward the table, my fingers tightening around a plate.

Nicole walked in from the kitchen, holding a bottle of wine. “Oh good, you’re here,” she said to Owen before handing the bottle to Simon. “You have to tell us everything . You might have told Simon, but he doesn’t tell me anything important. The girls are obsessed with the presents, by the way.”

Owen laughed, rubbing his jaw at her gunfire pace. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“I see you haven’t lost your charm,” I half-whispered when he passed by me, just as the table was almost ready.

A panty-melting smirk was his response and my proof.

We kept our distance from each other on purpose, acting as if nothing had changed.

But it still spilled through the seams.

At one point, Owen leaned in and murmured something entirely mundane in my ear—about how good the food smelled—but the way his breath tickled my skin, the quiet intimacy of it, probably made it seem like something else .

I caught Simon’s gaze zipping between us.

Then, before we sat down, I found myself standing next to Owen, and his hand barely ghosted over the small of my back.

A brief, thoughtless touch—one that sent a spark up my spine but meant nothing, really.

Except Simon caught it, too. His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, like he was watching a puzzle come together piece by piece.

His jaw tightened just a fraction.

We all sat down, Owen taking the seat Nicole gestured toward—one further away from me.

Dinner went on, conversation flowing easily around me.

Until my mom, with her well-meaning comments, turned to me.

“Rio, those bangs always seem to fall into your eyes. Maybe you should try Nicole's hairstylist—he could do something great with your hair. Just look at how nice Nicole’s always looks.”

“Sure, Mom,” I muttered. She would never have said it in front of strangers. That was the problem—she considered Owen like a brother to me.

“I think you look beautiful,” Owen said.

I glanced at him and smiled. “Thanks,” I mouthed.

The secret smile was there, lingering, and when I looked around, I noticed—so was Simon’s gaze.

Walter only seemed interested when Nicole and my mom started grilling Owen about his injury, surgery, and physio.

Owen, being Owen, gave them the perfect mix of banter and just the necessary details.

When my mom pressed for an actual date for his full recovery—which I took to mean his departure date—he responded, “My body’s on beach time now, not Wembley time. ”

Throughout it all, I was only half there. Because as much as I wanted to believe this was simple, that it was just fun, I couldn’t ignore the feeling thudding against my ribs.

I didn’t know how long Owen was staying. I didn’t know what he was thinking.

But a soccer ball with a heartbeat line running through it was etched on his chest and an added proof was inked on his arm. Goal is love. Love is goal.

I definitely knew what that meant.