“It was nice,” I said around a mouthful, glad for the excuse to keep my mouth busy.
Walter grunted, clearly unimpressed. “Nice?”
I ignored him, taking another bite.
“I’ve gotta run,” I said after a beat. “I won’t be back late today. I have a batch of—”
“Owen said he’d drop me off at the club on the way to his physio,” Walter interrupted.
I nodded. “Great. Be nice to him, Walter. He’s having a hard time with this injury and ... you know they suspended his contract.”
“I’m always nice.”
I chuckled, patted his shoulder, and got up.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I pulled up beside the house and stepped out, unloading a crate of glass candle jars from my trunk. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden light over the driveway. As I carried the crate toward the garage, I noticed the door to the storage room next to it was open, the light on.
Peeking inside, I took in the view of new gym equipment neatly arranged—machines for arms, legs, and core work, abench press, resistance bands, even a treadmill. A small shelf lined with supplements, and a few neatly folded towels.
The thought of Owen, of his body, his strength, sent a coil of heat through me.
I blushed at the sight of two orange foam rollers stacked next to a soccer ball.
Inside the house, I found Walter in his room, watching The View.
“Want to take a stroll outside?” I asked, hoping an outing would spare me meeting Owen now. “It’s still nice. We can go down to the beach.”
“Owen’s at the beach,” Walter said, frowning at the TV. “Said he was going to wash the sweat from his workout. He installed an entire gym at the back. Takes the doctors’ orders so seriously, he ends up pushing himself harder than they recommend. Who washes off in the ocean?”
The visual of Owen, muscles flexing, waves licking at his bare skin, made that coil of heat burn in me.Icould use cold ocean water now. “Must be a European thing,” I muttered, attempting nonchalance.
Walter hummed. “Let’s go. Better than listening to these idiots.” He turned off the TV and rose to his feet.
I was supposed to work. Ineededto work.
But the beach suddenly felt like a tide pulling me in against my better judgment.
The house sat on a sprawling plot of land, but instead of a pool, like the McMansions in this neighborhood had, Owen opted for a large, open yard and Walter used it for vegetable and flower beds that stretched toward the back fence. The path to the beach wound between a few neighboring houses,shaded by palms and bursts of wildflowers. I often took this walk alone, sometimes with Walter.
I spotted him before he saw us. He was playing soccer with two kids, his broad back and shoulders bare to the sun, his skin kissed golden. The ball moved effortlessly between his feet, his movements fluid and precise.
Owen turned, and the sight of his sculpted chest and abs stole the air from my lungs.
He waved at us and continued playing.
Walter stopped to chat with a neighbor, settling onto a bench beside him, and I continued watching the game, kicking off my shoes and letting the sand sift between my toes.
The kids eventually ran off, scooping up the sneakers they’d used as goalposts. I wondered if they even knew who they’d been playing with.
Owen approached me, stopping just short of too close. With a flick of his foot, he sent the ball rolling toward me.
“Ever play?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the setting sun.
“Not really,” I admitted. “Just the mandatory passing drills in school.”
I kicked the ball back, landing it right at his feet.
He let out a soft laugh. “Maybe I should call a scout.”
