His Greatest Treasure (Greatest Love #4)

Chapter 3

3

AVERY

I’ve loved flowers since I was a little girl growing up in Sweden.

The majority of my childhood was spent lying in the meadow behind the house that bloomed with sm?rblomma. Tall buttercups are what they call them in North America, and the name is fitting. I’d collect bundles of the bright and glossy yellow flowers and keep them in my room. They didn’t last awfully long, but by the time they were drooping, I was replacing them with more.

That’s where my fascination started. It’s only grown over the years, and as I step into Linnea and Lillies, an overwhelming sensation of comfort washes over me. With a long inhale, I ignore the scent of mildew and focus on the hint of flowers from the lone bouquet that sits on the counter.

This place is far from being ready to open, but I’m not in a rush. It was always a dream of mine to open my own flower shop, and after spending nine years back in Canada getting my life together to the point it became a reality, I want it to be perfect no matter the timeline.

“It stinks in here, Mom. Like Dad’s sweaty socks.”

I roll my lips to keep from laughing and turn to face my daughter. Her button nose is scrunched, thin blondish-white brows tugged together as she strolls through the place like she owns it. With a dainty finger pointed, she drags it over the shelf on the wall and inspects it for dust.

“It’s dirty too.”

“It’s going to be dirty, honey. Nobody has cleaned it in forever, I’m sure.”

“ Beh?ver jag g?ra det? ” she asks, disgusted enough with the idea of cleaning the place that she asks the question in Swedish.

“No, Nova. You don’t have to clean it. But keep up the attitude, and maybe that will change.”

She shakes her head, tight blonde curls swishing around her face. “What attitude?”

“You forget that speaking in Swedish to hide your real words only works if you’re around someone who doesn’t also speak it.” I wink and set my purse on the counter.

The surface of it is dirty too. But it’s sturdy and shines in the sunlight poking through the filthy windows. A little bit of surface cleaner and it’ll be as good as new. Hopefully.

The same can thankfully be said for the rest of the shop. The front of it, at least. I’ve only ventured to the back once before I put a bid on the building, but one look into the bathroom had me wanting to demolish it instead of cleaning it.

If it weren’t for the beautiful black-framed windows on the front side of the shop, the pale blue herringbone tile flooring, and the large walk-in cooler, I’d have passed on the place. It was expensive—too expensive for the size and location—but after one look inside, I couldn’t pass it up.

“When do we get to go home? I want to unpack my room.”

“We’ve been here for five minutes.”

“I’m bored.”

Planting my hands on my hips, I cock a brow. “I can always change my mind and get you started on the cleaning today.”

“No, thank you.”

“Then just stay bored for a couple more minutes. I have to do something really quick, and then we can leave. ”

She huffs, all four feet of her bubbling with a disturbing amount of attitude. Even for a seven-year-old. “Fine.”

In all honesty, we didn’t need to come here today. The electrician I called in to take a look at the place isn’t coming until tomorrow, and I’m too tired from hauling all of our boxes into our new house this morning to tackle cleaning any form of mess right now.

I just needed to get away from the house for a while. The conversation I had this morning with our next-door neighbour has lingered in my head all day, and I’ve grown angry now that I’ve stewed on it for hours.

Oliver Bateman clearly doesn’t remember me, but I remember him. I’d have to swap my brain out for another to forget him and all of the childhood memories I have that include him and his sulky presence.

He’s the son of one set of my parents’ lifelong friends. Tyler and Gracie Bateman went to university with my mom and dad. My dad and Oliver’s even played on the same junior hockey team for a while. That was before my parents moved to Sweden so Dad could play hockey there, but that didn’t stop us from visiting them.

It was only once a year, but I saw the Batemans multiple times over the course of my early life. We were young the last time I was around Oliver, though. Ten years ago, he was only sixteen, and I was twenty. I hate to admit it, but it’s not that surprising he doesn’t remember me.

I’ve changed a lot since then, as has he. No longer the scrawny, pimple-faced teen that used to sit and sulk in corners by himself with a book in hand, he’s a man. One with a wide, sharp jaw and thick, rippling muscles that I had a hard time not ogling when he was barking at me in my front yard wearing nothing but sweatpants.

My face flushes as images of his chest pulsing with angry breaths and his huge, veiny hands and long fingers running through his messy black hair flash behind my eyes. He was tall to the point that if I were closer to him, I’d have had to tip my head all the way back just to keep eye contact.

He was all grumpy, brutal man with an axe to grind with me, and I felt small and fragile in his presence, two traits that I never use to describe myself. It was like I was waiting for him to finish snapping at me, only to pick me up by the back of my shirt and flick me across the neighbourhood.

The only thing more mortifying than remembering our conversation clearly enough to recount it in my mind is knowing that he noticed the way I checked him out and was so disgusted by it that he grew even grumpier. As if I offended him by growing flushed at the sight of a half-naked, unfairly attractive man.

He can step barefoot on a pile of pine needles and thistle bushes for all I care. Clearly, while he’s grown physically, he’s stayed the same mentally, choosing to be a grumpy asshole all his life.

“Why are you glaring at the wall, Mom?” Nova asks, forcing me to reel myself back in.

I swallow to ease the dryness in my throat and force a smile on my face for my daughter. “You know what? Forget it. Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight before we head back?”

Her blue eyes twinkle at the suggestion as she jumps and claps her hands together. “Yes! Lucy’s?”

“As if we’d go anywhere else. Just let me lock up first.”

Lucy’s diner is a staple. It was a staple in my parents’ lives, and from how much Nova loves it here, it’ll be one in hers.

Every time we came back to visit Vancouver when I was a kid, we would wind up here. It’s never changed, and I don’t think it ever will. The teal-blue-and-white retro diner with the light-up Open 24 Hours sign on the windows and door and the jukebox that’s played more music on a Friday night than any radio ever has are a comfort that I don’t ever want to give up.

I feel like a kid again as we slide into a booth against the front window, and Nova beams at the elderly woman who sets our menus on the table before leaving us alone.

“I know what I want. I don’t need a menu,” Nova declares, her chin resting on her clasped hands.

“Grilled cheese, add bacon, and sweet potato fries on the side?”

“And?”

I laugh softly. “And a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream on top with three cherries.”

She nods proudly. “Yep.”

“What am I having?”

“Turkey sandwich and fries with gravy. And a Diet Coke,” she says without hesitation.

I glance around the diner, taking in the familiar hustle and bustle that I’ve missed over the past few weeks. “Maybe we go here too often.”

“No! We didn’t come lots when we lived with Dad. I like it here.”

“We still came once every couple of weeks,” I point out.

Sure, the forty-minute drive sucked and kept us from coming as often as I’d like, but I still made a point to take the trip in. Even if we did only stay for a short time.

My smarty-pants of a daughter leans back, arms crossed. “Yeah, but now we can come once a week. Remember? You promised.”

“Yeah, I did. And we will.”

Her grin is dimpled, her slightly crooked front tooth flashing. “Good.”

The elderly waitress comes to our table and takes our order before patting the top of Nova’s head and sliding to the next table. My seven-year-old frowns while patting down her hair .

“Why do old people do things without asking? I didn’t want my hair ruffled.”

I laugh, reaching across the table to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Rules are rules. Even if you’re old, you still have to be nice,” she grumbles.

“You’re right.”

“Mormor said that they should have to retake their driving tests too once they get old.”

“Your mormor should have retaken her test years ago, and not just because she’s getting old.”

Nova’s grandmother, or Mormor, as she calls her sometimes, is the worst driver I’ve ever met. She’s not reckless, but she has road rage unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before. It’s why she hardly drives, and Dad made it his mission to turn the both of us into passenger princesses.

I’m ashamed to admit that she passed the bad driving genes onto me.

“She’s a funny driver.”

“No, she’s not. She’s lucky nobody’s ever rammed into the back of her car from how often she slams on the brakes in front of people.”

“It’s because they’re on her ass, Mom.”

“Nova!” I scold despite the laugh building in my throat.

She smiles overly sweetly and bats her blonde lashes. “What?”

“Does your dad let you swear like that when you’re at his house?”

“Sometimes,” she admits.

I inhale through my nose and settle back in the booth. My ex and Nova’s father, Chris, is an alright guy, but he doesn’t have a single parental bone in his body. He allows her to do whatever she wants when she visits every second weekend, and while she enjoys it now, she won’t later when it starts to affect her more. It’s been like this since she was born and was inevitably what broke us apart .

Suffering with postpartum depression while being the only active parent of a colicky newborn was where my resentment of him started. It grew with every year I struggled to carry the weight of being a single parent while not actually being single.

When Nova was small, it was cute when she swore, and it made everyone laugh. But now that she’s older, it gets her in trouble at school more often than not. She’s seven but has the vulgar vocabulary of a seventeen-year-old.

With a frown and pink cheeks, she adds, “Don’t tell him I said that. He doesn’t really let me swear.”

“No? You just said he did.”

“I was kidding,” she says, but it’s more like a question than a statement.

“I won’t tell him you told me.”

The last thing I need is a fight to break out between them over something like this. With the move and the new distance put between them because of it, I don’t want to make anything worse.

It’s taken a lot of hard work to be cordial with Chris after our breakup four years ago, but the real struggle has been allowing him even the two weekends a month he gets her. I don’t trust him with her, but for Nova, we’ve somehow managed to make it work. That’s not to say we’re a perfectly oiled machine, though.

And with this new start to our lives, I can’t be too careful. This is a chance for us to flourish, but in order for that to happen, I have to make all the right choices. Starting with treating my girl to dinner at our favourite spot and unpacking our things so we can make our new house a home.