“We’re going, we’re going,” Rio muttered as we turned for the door.
“Have fun, Grandpa. Maybe let her win.”
“And something to eat,” Rio added.
“Bye already!” Walter called out before slamming his door.
Rio and I laughed as we stepped outside.
“Is this the first time he’s had a lady visitor or visitors in general?” I asked.
“He’s had friends over, but they mostly socialize at the seniors’ club or swimming. That’s why I make sure he keeps going.”
“I hope Clarice is the one.” I laughed and opened the door of the Range Rover.
“Don’t you want to try mine again?” Rio dangled her key.
“I’m trying to preserve my dignity. And my knees.”
She laughed and slid into the passenger seat.
As I backed out of the driveway, I sneaked a glance at her profile.
Her gaze was fixed ahead, but her soft fruity scent filled the car, wrapping around me like a memory I never let go of.
11
Rio
“WHERE ARE WE GOING, anyway?”
I’d spent all day trying not to think about this dinner or the hug last night, and in doing so, I forgot to ask where we were even going.
When Owen stepped out of his suite looking the way he did, I couldn’t wait to get to Walter.
But then Walter ditched us.
And here I was, feeling like I was on a date that wasn’t a date with a man who could undo me if I let him.
“Marlowe in Coral Bay.”
“Oh, I heard it’s good. Walter would have loved it.” Coral Bay was where Ruby lived now, a short distance from Blueshore. She was running the Coral Bay Inn that belonged to her family. That was where my brother’s wedding had been held, and where Owen and I kissed for the last time the day after he had freed me from my virgin status. I wondered if he recalled that.
“He loves anything with valet parking and waiters who actually wear suits.” Owen smirked.
He probably didn’t remember.
I reached out and turned up the car radio before an uncomfortable silence settled between us. A familiar song played—Perfectby Alanis Morissette.
“Where did you go with your friend?” Owen asked while I tried hard not to notice the way his strong hands gripped the steering wheel, or the tattoos on his arms. His right arm was covered with a black mandala—geometric shapes and circles that stretched from his bicep to his elbow, down to the top of his forearm, leaving the rest of his forearm bare, the veins visible beneath his skin like winding rivers over muscle. On the inner side of his left forearm, the Latin calligraphic sentences peered at me now.
“We went to the Shore Thing. It’s down by the beach in Blueshore. I went with Ruby.”
“Ruby’s the one with the thick curls and the retainer?”
I nodded. “Only now she has perfect teeth and gorgeous curls. You saw her last at Emma’s christening.”
“That was the same one? I’m impressed!”
