Page 52 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

RiOwen

THE RHYTHMIC ROAR OF chants echoed up toward the blue sky above the stadium.

My pulse thrummed with the familiar pre-game adrenaline—the weight of the jersey, the feel of the fabric against my skin, the sharp awareness in my legs, even the dull ache in my messed-up knee. My body was ready.

But my heart was racing for an entirely different reason—for the woman in my arms, the one I was kissing like the game could wait.

“Hey, Wheaton! It’s almost time,” one of my teammates called. We were minutes from lining up, heading out for the national anthem.

Rio and I smiled into one last, lingering kiss before pulling apart.

I reached into my duffel. “One more thing.”

Holding out my hand, I let the white gold chain dangle from between my fingers while the dented little charm shaped like a shield rested on my palm. “I’ve worn it under my jersey since I was nineteen. Every big match. Every moment that counted. Except today. ”

Rio lifted curious eyes to meet mine. “Why not today?”

I took her hand, turned it palm-up, and placed the charm in it gently. “Because I want you to have it. I don’t need it anymore.” I paused, heart full. “Not when I have you.”

She curled her fingers around it. Didn’t say a word. Just looked at me like I’d handed her the damn moon.

Still holding her hand, I guided her finger over the ink on my forearm. Love is goal, goal is love. From the look in her eyes, I knew she got it. I leaned in and kissed her again—quick, fierce, grounding.

A smack on my shoulder pulled me back. One of my teammates, grinning.

I was then swept away by the line of players, but not before glancing over my shoulder at Rio.

She stood right where I’d left her, smiling, her eyes glinting.

She knew exactly how much I loved her and how much I needed that last look.

Out on the pitch, I stood tall with my hands behind my back, the crowd a thunderous wall around us. The opponent team lined up across from us as the national anthems began to play.

I couldn’t see the VIP box from where I stood, but I didn’t need to. I knew who was there. Rio. My grandfather. Simon and his family. All of them waving flags, shouting our names, hoping we’d fight our way into the quarterfinals.

And I would. With or without that charm. Because today, it was kept in a better place—close to the heart of the woman who owned mine.

THE SUN WAS SINKING behind the Aegean Sea, casting molten gold across the water and painting the white walls of the villa behind us a soft peach.

Laughter floated out from the open patio doors—Walter and Simon talking over the grill, Nicole chiding Emma for running around, my mother pouring more wine than anyone asked for, someone—Chloe probably—queuing up music that was probably too loud for the neighbors.

Yes, my mother. “It’s a short flight, I can make it,” she had said when I told her where we were heading for the World Cup. Her husband was somewhere inside the house, probably messing with my spices and explaining to everyone the right way to marinate fish.

Out on the terrace, I had everything I needed.

Rio leaned against the ornate iron railing, barefoot, legs bare, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and my Team USA hoodie—the sleeves were past her fingers, like she was trying to wear every inch of it.

A white wine glass dangled lazily from her hand, the stem hooked loosely between her fingers.

Her head was tilted back, eyes closed against the glow of the setting sun, the breeze off the sea brushing her bangs off her forehead.

She looked like a damn dream. My dream.

“So this is Greece,” she murmured, her voice soft with contentment. “I like it here.”

I stepped up behind her, wrapping my arms around her middle and pressing a kiss first to her nape, where the white gold chain rested on her skin, then another just below her ear. “I’ll buy the whole island if you want us to stay.”

Her laughter was low and warm. “I’ve already got everything I want.”

I leaned my cheek on her temple, breathing the same sea air. I’d won a match earlier that day—the one that got us into the quarterfinals—but even that high didn’t come close to this.

THE ANCHOR DROPPED with a deep clunk as we pulled into a deserted beach that looked like someone’s screensaver—white sand tucked between rocks, the water so clear it didn’t seem real.

I leaned over the side of the yacht, the salty air curling my hair.

Emma squealed somewhere behind me and Walter argued—playfully, I hoped—with Simon and Owen’s mom about sunscreen or sandwiches or something equally important.

But my eyes were on Owen.

Shirtless, tanned, laughing off comments about his new tattoo, responding to something Chloe said before walking toward me, probably unaware of how good he looked. I turned before he could catch the look on my face.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, tugging off my tank top. “I thought these places existed only in Bond movies. We’re in a Bond movie. ”

And just like in one, Owen had flown all of us to Greece—even offered to bring my mom, but she couldn’t make it—then, whisked us off to this island, to a villa I hadn’t even known he owned, until he’d first offered it.

And today, he rented a large yacht that came with champagne and a fruit platter and oversized towels that I was willing to bet cost more than my entire wardrobe.

But Owen being Owen, he wasn’t showy about it.

It was wealth he’d earned all on his own by hard work.

It was the kind of luxury you noticed only when you dried your face on Egyptian cotton and tried not to be too impressed by the private chef that came with the yacht.

It was still surreal for me. But I let him spoil me a little.

I remembered what January said about Oliver—how his money didn’t define him, it never touched the core of who he was.

He used it to care for the people he loved.

I felt the same about Owen. Maybe that was why it was so easy to forget he was rich, and why being here still felt like a surprise.

“Corfu was in a Bond movie,” Owen now said with a smile.

I rose to my feet and slung my arms around his neck. “Figures. You Brits.”

He was chuckling when he kissed me.

Soon after, I jumped in, slicing into the sea with a splash and a shock of cold that stole the breath from my lungs.

Owen followed and we swam side by side, drifting from the chaos on the boat toward the quieter edges of the beach. The others’ voices faded into background noise as a secret cove opened before us—hidden from view, half-shaded, a perfect little untouched strip of sand inside it .

I scrambled up first, breathless and grinning, heading toward a soft yellow rock. I barely turned before Owen’s arms circled me from behind, turning me, lifting me off the ground, and spinning me around.

“If I throw up, it’ll be all your fault,” I gasped, laughing against his lips as he kissed me.

“If you do, I’ll hold your hair up for you,” he said, suddenly serious.

“What?” I said. “I’m not really going to throw up.”

“Not that. Just a thought,” he half-mumbled, easing me back to my feet.

“What thought?” God, is he the queasy kind?

He held my gaze. “In sickness and in health, Rio. I want that with you.”

I felt the gust of air that I inhaled in surprise.

“Why are you so shocked?”

“Um ... what are you ... what are you saying?”

“That I want it all with you—in sickness, in health, in better and worse, and whatever life brings us.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My heart was too full, my breath too short. The sun, the sea, the feel of his skin against mine—it all blurred at the edges as I looked at him.

He was still holding me, still flushed from the water and the laughter, still too good to be real.

My fingers curled into the nape of his neck. Then, wordlessly, I kissed him.

Not the playful, smiling kind we’d been stealing all day. This was deeper. Slower. My whole heart behind it. And the words that would no doubt stick in my throat if I tried to utter them .

I hoped this would be enough for now.

Soon enough we were gripping each other, and I was dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with motion sickness.

“We shouldn’t,” I mumbled when Owen slipped his hands under the edge of my bikini bottom, his fingers grazing skin he already knew too well.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he rasped.

Instead, I kissed him again, hot, urgent, until we were tangled limbs and breathless promises, the sound of the sea our only witness.

I BLURTED IT OUT, BUT I meant every word.

I wanted it all with her.

Two mornings later, I kissed her before I left. She was barely awake, one arm thrown above her head, the silver charm resting against her chest. I pressed my lips there too, over the heartbeat I already knew.

I walked out, knowing I wouldn’t touch her again until after the quarterfinal match. Team rule. Abstain the day before. No distractions. No exceptions.

Now I was on the pitch, the roar of the crowd louder than my own pulse, and I knew she was watching.

I spotted the banner before I saw any of them. WONDER WHEATON , painted in bold red letters, flanked by glittery stars. Chloe was probably responsible for the glitter. Simon definitely came up with the idea. Rio, I’d bet anything, drew the hearts that stood for the ‘O’s.

Walter waved his free hand .

They were all there. My family.

I let myself focus on them. On her. Just for a second.

And then I got back to work.

We didn’t win.

We got close. Close enough to taste it. We’d made it this far, further than anyone had expected.

After the whistle, I stood for a moment in the middle of the pitch, sweat cooling on my skin. I’d already shaken hands. Already congratulated the other team. Now I exchanged jerseys with one of their strikers—he clapped my shoulder because we both knew how hard this was.

I looked up at the stands.

She was there. Cheering for me like we’d won. Like I’d already won.

And I had.

Because she was mine.