“Then it was mutual.” I chuckled.
I was still reveling in how he looked at me on the stairs landing. This man was used to supermodels, but the way he’d looked at me ...
Even when my mom dubbed himOur Owen, he was neverjustOwen. He was the kind of guy you couldn’t help but notice, one you couldn’t take your eyes off or look away from, even when you wanted to.
I was pretty sure that for more than one, or two, or a dozen women, he was that guy they’d respond to in the middle of the night, no matter how much time had passed, no matter who they were with.
As for me, I knew then and I knew now—if I let myself be drawn in, Owen could be my one big, messy, unrequited love.
“Do you miss England?” I asked after a while, shifting the conversation before my thoughts spiraled too far. Reality check was due.
“Not so much England as being on the field. And if anything, I miss Italy more.”
“June’s husband is from Milano. He has an Inter Milan tattoo.”
“Wonderful team. They have very dedicated fans. I played for their rival, but they’re great.”
“What about the fans, the paparazzi, being recognized on the street, the groupies—all that? Don’t you miss it?” I asked because he kept confusing me. Was he Our Owen or Superstar Owen?
“Is this what you think of me?” He turned his head briefly to look at me.
“I figured it must be part of the fame.”
“It’s part of thegame.”
“Still ...” I insisted.
“I miss the meaning of it—that I’m still something.”
I turned to stare at his profile. Did this man, who had everything, whowaseverything, really think he wasn’t because he couldn’t play?
“You still are, regardless,” I said.
Owen glanced at me with an intensity that cut through the air between us.
“We have soccer here too, you know,” I added quickly, steering the conversation back to his profession, away from what he meant to me regardless of it.
His gaze back on the road, Owen smiled. “The MLS is for footballers what Florida is for old New Yorkers. It’s where they go to retire.”
Entering Coral Bay, he U-turned into an open parking spot in front of the restaurant. “Walter would have complained about not using the valet.”
I had to look away from the way his forearms flexed.
“See? You couldn’t do this in Europe without paparazzi,” I pointed out when we stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Even Leo Messi, football’s Pope, gets to walk around Miami unbothered,” Owen chuckled.
Inside, we were led to a table by the window. The restaurant had a warm ambiance, with golden light bouncing off the wooden panels, and the low hum of conversation served as a cozy backdrop.
“I watched your tutorials,” Owen said after we settled in.
“You didn’t!”
“I did. Found you on YouTube.”
“You’re not the target audience.” I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I really didn’t want him to see these.
“I was curious. Besides, I wanted to cheer you on. I really like them. You’re funny, creative, and knowledgeable.”
