“Thanks.” I lowered my gaze to the menu.It’s not a date, Rio.
“It’s a great way to market the shop, too. I heard you opened a branch in Wayford. Is that how it started?”
“June’s mostly in the new branch. I manage the one in Riviera View. I started the videos for marketing; I figured that, at most, people wouldn’t watch them. But I’m also doing them for myself. I wanted to talk about my products apart from the shop and also ...”
“Also what?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “You did pretty great onyoursocials.” Having a pretty face probably didn’t hurt.
“You know it wasn’t me, right?” Owen replied. “There’s a nice PR guy running it all. I just take pictures when he asks me to.”
“Oh, haha, I didn’t know. But it makes sense.”
“So what’s thealsoabout?” He saw through my deflection.
I took a deep breath. “It’s not easy for me to speak in front of an audience, so I thought this could be a way to practice with an invisible one. And after I broke up with Bradley, I kind of needed that.” I said too much, and being aware of it mid-speech, I got stuck more than I usually did with Owen.
Owen reached across the table and touched my hand where it rested on the tablecloth. “I love that.”
I cleared my throat.
“I love that you’ve never let yourselfnotspeak up. I remember in school assemblies, you insisted on raising your hand before anyone else.”
“That’s because I had a lot of speech therapy. One thing I learned was that initiating was better than waiting to be addressed. That way, I could choose my words beforehand.And I wanted to prove to myself that fear wouldn’t silence me.”
“I love it even more now.” His voice was raspy. And there it was. That soft gaze, the secret smile. Different from his regular ones.
“You don’t give up either. For you, any obstacle is a medal opportunity,” I expelled.
“It kind of is.”
“Not everyone sees it that way, you know.”
“I kick a football, you kick ass.” He removed his hand from mine.
“Kickass. You could have chosen a word that’s easier for me to say.” I laughed.
We had just placed our orders—braised short ribs with mashed potatoes and grilled vegetables for Owen and grilled salmon with steamed vegetables for me—when a waiter arrived with our drinks. As he set them down, a man at the next table did a double take, eyes widening as he got up.
“Wonder Wheaton! The best right-midfield attacker,” he blurted out, half-addressing the waiter, who paused mid-motion, clearly caught off guard. “The best leagues in Europe, man. Championship League! La Liga! Bundesliga! Serie A!” He now stood next to our waiter.
Owen exhaled softly, a familiar mix of amusement and patience settling over his features.
The waiter glanced between us, clearly having no clue who Owen was, but the fan was undeterred.
“Seriously, I’m a huge fan. Huge! I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt. But I mean, UEFA Super Cup, three-timeChampions League winner, World Cup. You won all of them.”
“Not all. Not the World Cup,” Owen corrected, his voice calm.
The man waved that off like it was a minor technicality. “You played in it. Get that knee fixed, I’m rooting for England to finally make it past the quarter-finals. You were the MVP there, just so you know.”
Owen gave a small nod, his expression polite, but a darker cloud crossed his face at the mention of the cup.
The waiter, sensing his moment to escape, took a step back. “I’ll bring your food out shortly,” he said before disappearing toward the kitchen.
The fan, meanwhile, bent next to Owen and snapped a selfie before heading back to his table.
Owen and I exchanged a look, our lips pressed to hold in a laugh, brows lifting in a well-that-just-happened kind of way.
