I scoffed, but the next time he passed it to me, I met him halfway, nudging it back with more force. “Doesn’t your knee suffer?”
“A little,” he kicked the ball back to me.
His gym shorts revealed the strong, muscled legs I was used to seeing in the media. A faint, long scar ran along hisleft knee, barely visible through the hair on his legs, while a more recent one marked his right.
I tried not to stare, but on the left side of his chest, I noticed a tattoo I hadn’t seen before—a soccer ball at the center, a heartbeat line spiking through it. The game was the pulse in this man’s veins.
Above it, a simple 7 was etched—his position on the field, his jersey number, his identity.
I focused on the real ball and kicked it a bit harder.
We found a rhythm, the ball moving between us, the sand shifting warm and cold beneath my feet, the breeze teasing strands of hair across my face.
The sun dipped lower, tinting the sky in hues of amber and lavender.
I didn’t realize how close we’d gotten until my shoulder bumped his chest, then, in another maneuver, we collided, chest to chest. His hands caught my waist, steadying me, but he didn’t let go right away.
His warmth seeped through my shirt, his grip was firm, possessive in a way that made my pulse stutter.
I glanced up, breathless. The scent of his body filled whatever air I managed to draw.
“You’re a natural,” he murmured, his breath mixing with mine. His fingers flexed at my waist, branding heat into my skin.
Maybe it was only me, but I felt the ocean air thrumming in the little space that was left between our bodies.
I licked the salt from my lips, watching Owen’s gaze drop to my mouth.
“It’s dinner time,” Walter’s voice cut through the moment, as if ringing from far away.
Owen took a step back, dropping his arm from my waist as if he’d just realized I was burning him. Or maybe it was the other way around.
He turned to Walter, voice smooth. “Frittata sound good?”
As we walked back, Owen slightly limping though trying to act as if he didn’t, I thought about calling the real estate agency. Looking up more listings.
Ihadto.
Because this?
I couldn’t do this anymore.
OWEN PULLED A TEE OVERhis head before heading to the kitchen, the soft gray cotton stretching across his chest, shoulders, and biceps, highlighting every movement beneath it.
I, on the other hand, was still in my work clothes—a pair of dark blue jeans and a sleeveless green blouse that smelled faintly of lavender and wax. I tugged at the hem self-consciously as I set the table.
Walter settled into his usual spot while Owen moved around the kitchen with natural efficiency, cracking eggs, whisking them with a practiced hand, and slicing up vegetables. The air filled with the rich scent of olive oil heating in the pan.
I watched him from my seat, pretending I wasn’t tracking the way his muscles flexed with each movement, the way his shirt shifted just enough to hint at the body I’d been pressed against less than an hour ago.
As we ate, my phone buzzed.
Simon.
I answered, already knowing what he wanted. “Hey.”
“Don’t forget, you’re babysitting tomorrow.”
“I know.”
