Page 5 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Rio

“HE’S PROBABLY JET-LAGGED ,” I told Walter in the morning. “When he wakes up, ask him for a match, but let him have some coffee and food first.”

I was making his breakfast and mine as he sat at the table with the board ready.

Usually, when I didn’t have a morning shift in the shop, I played with him.

Scrabble helped keep his mind and memory active and sharp.

I didn’t love the game as Walter did, but I loved him.

He was so competitive, but I didn’t mind losing.

Words were dear to me because they didn’t come easily for me.

I had to pick mine, carefully choose, or dance around them.

I drove through Blueshore. The salty breeze carried the scent of the ocean that lay just beyond the rows of houses with sandy paths leading to its shore.

Less than an hour later, I entered Riviera View, where our shop sat among pastel-hued storefronts on Ocean Avenue, that stretched all the way to the cliff’s edge where the town perched above the water.

Pushing the shop’s door open, I turned the sign on it to Open and switched the lights on.

The familiar aromatic mix of spices, scented candles, herbal teas, and oils hit my nose.

It never ceased to make me happy, and today it was calming too.

With the place I called home now inhabiting a man who did the opposite to my heart and body, the shop was my escape.

Despite promising Owen I wouldn’t look for a place, a half-sleepless night I searched online for properties.

Preferably ones with a spare room I could use as a workshop.

I used to create my scented candles, lip balms, and oil blends in a space at the back of the shop, but that meant staying after hours.

When I moved in with Walter, I used the garage.

That way, I was home for him while still working on my products.

Angelo, June’s surprise-husband, used the shop’s back room now.

“You can complement this blend with the rosehip balm.” I went on to explain the aromatic benefits while wrapping the customer’s products.

“It’s all handmade,” I replied to another lady who stood not far and questioned our variety.

“They can’t fool us at the factory, because I’m the factory,” I added with a smile when she doubted my response.

Despite some annoying customers, I loved my job. I started here at twenty-five, after years of rejection in interviews that barely lasted ten minutes or ending up in back-office and storage jobs where talking to customers wasn’t required.

Ten years ago, I opened my interview with June with: “I have a stutter, as you can hear. I want to acknowledge it, so you won’t feel uncomfortable during our interview.

You can ask me anything about it, including if I think that I can serve customers and answer the phone.

But I have one request. If I get stuck, please let me finish my own sentences without trying to complete them for me. ”

She didn’t only hire me but soon let me run the shop alongside her. Recently, I began doing YouTube tutorials on my products. I opened every video with, “It’s not your internet connection getting stuck. It’s me. I stutter. Now let’s talk about cinnamon and why you want it in your skincare.”

I couldn’t have imagined doing that back in the days of cold sweat in introduction circles at school. The teachers who thought it’d be fun and inclusive to do those for icebreaking starred in my nightmares. I loved the boring teachers who immediately began teaching.

At noontime, June came in. The first quiet minute, she nudged my side. “So?”

“Good customer traffic this morning.”

“I’m not talking about sales, though that’s good to know too. Is Owen back?”

“Last night.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

June gave me a sly look. The same one I could almost hear in Ruby’s text when I replied to her the same last night.

“Really. Nothing. He arrived. Walter greeted him with a flare of guilt and grumpiness, and they both went into their rooms. He was still asleep when I left. Probably jet-lagged. Plus, looked like he was in pain. He limped.”

“Hmmm.” June nodded.

“ What? ” I asked defensively.

“Nothing.” The look on her face told me she didn’t believe I was this indifferent .

“Oh, hey, I wanted to ask,” I said. “Do me a favor, don’t tell Angelo about him, or at least don’t tell him his name. Angelo follows European football, and he’ll know Owen. I think he’s here to keep a low profile.”

June pantomimed locking her mouth with her fingers.

“Thanks.”

She then turned her fingers the other way around, as if unlocking her lips. “So it did nothing to you to have him there?”

“I didn’t sleep well. That’s what you want to hear?”

“Yes.” She chuckled.

“It’s just strange having someone in the house besides Walter and me. This big star who I used to know suddenly fills in the space with his ...” I shrugged.

“With his body and face and good looks and charisma. I read about him and saw pictures. I know what it’s like to live in the same space with someone like that. I married him.”

“It’s different. You didn’t know Angelo before, and he wanted to stay here.

Owen is not here because he wants to, and don’t forget that I used to know Owen but he’s an entirely different person now.

And ... I don’t think this Owen is someone I want to .

.. I wouldn’t ask this Owen to ... you know, if I were . .. Never mind, we have customers.”

I hurried from behind the counter toward Mr. Amos who strode straight to the tea aisle.

“I’M READY,” WALTER announced as soon as I walked in that afternoon. He was wearing a tracksuit over his swimsuit and holding his duffel bag.

“Are we still going? I thought ...”

“I want to go to the pool like I do every week. We had lunch together. For him it was breakfast, of course, because he only got up at twelve.”

“I told you he was jet-lagged. Is he here?”

“In his room, got a call from his agent.”

“Okay, let’s get going. Unless you want to be polite and ask him if he wants to join. Walter, I know you love him and that you’re a bit angry with him for not coming sooner, but please, it’s hard for him too, I’m sure. Let’s try—”

But before I could finish my lecture, Owen came down the stairs.

His limp seemed better though his knee was still in a brace, the end of which was visible under the leg of his off-white cropped chinos that matched his leather sneakers.

I nearly sighed out loud. Those soccer players sure had developed calves and thighs.

“Hey,” he greeted with a smile, raking his fingers through his dark brown hair.

“Hi,” I greeted back.

Even in a simple olive Henley that fitted his shoulders in a way that made me gulp, he looked effortlessly put-together.

He looked ... elite was the word that sprang to my mind.

It took me a moment to realize why—these were no simple chinos, sneakers, or a henley.

These were designer brands that individually cost like my monthly salary.

I remembered the watch he was wearing at Emma’s christening and my uncle whispering to my mom, “That’s a Patek Phillipe.

” I had been too busy trying not to see how good he had looked in a perfectly fitted suit to notice the watch.

“Mind if I come with you?”

“You can come but you look too fancy for the pool.” Walter didn’t waste words again.

“Don’t worry, Walter, I’ll manage,” Owen replied.

He used his grandfather’s name when he was trying to appease him, and Walter seemed to like it.

Like a toddler testing his parents’ limits, he pushed Owen to see if he’d snap.

And when Owen didn’t—when he stayed cool, unbothered—Walter ate it up.

It was as if proving Owen could take his shit without flinching reassured him that, despite his absence, Owen still loved him.

I locked the front door behind us, and we went toward the lane where my car was parked.

Owen took the duffel bag from Walter. “I can drive,” he offered.

“Can you drive on the right side of the road?” I teased, sending him a side glance. I made a quick note to self that not a muscle moved in Owen’s face when ‘can’ took me a bit longer to utter.

He grinned. “The accent, the driving, spelling color with or without ‘u’—I can adjust wherever I am. Only thing I couldn’t get used to was not drinking here before I turned twenty-one.

” The grin was gone, and the familiar subtle, secret smile crossed his face.

Like he was reminiscing with me what happened when he was twenty-one and I was nineteen.

“When does a football star like you have to spell the word color?” I bantered because that smile caught me off-guard, and now I needed knee braces to stop mine from melting under me.

“When I order designer clothes, of course,” he replied sarcastically, and we both laughed.

“I don’t care who drives, but I like to be punctual,” Walter grumped.

“Not a Rolls Royce,” I said, noticing Owen’s blue eyes widening in surprise at the sight of my lime-green Kia Picanto parked in the lane. “Still want to drive?”

Owen gave me a magnificent panty-melting lopsided smirk. “Challenge accepted.”

I felt sorry for challenging him, especially since he had enough of that from Walter, and even more when he had to roll the seat all the way back and practically fold himself in half to fit in front of the steering wheel.

Walter sat next to him, and I crammed myself into the back seat behind Walter.

“You look ridiculous,” Walter said. “Why don’t you let her drive?”

He was wrong. Even with his broad-shouldered 6’2” frame squeezed into my car, his knees practically touching the dashboard, Owen looked effortlessly cool.

“I should buy a car,” he half-mumbled to himself as he backed out of the driveway, his arm on the back of Walter’s seat, his face turned toward me in the backseat.

There was something about his size and the muscles delineating under the fabric of his shirt that made me want to cross my legs.