His Greatest Treasure (Greatest Love #4)

Chapter 10

10

AVERY

It’s about damn time.

Watching the colour leach from Oliver’s cheeks as he finally realized who I am was just as satisfying as I hoped it would be. Selfishly, I hoped it would happen in front of more people, but a win is a win.

Turns out that he was the only one who didn’t remember me, a fact that made my heart grow a half dozen sizes while simultaneously shrivelling up. From the moment Nova and I walked inside the house, it was a flurry of hugs and tears as I was tossed around from family to family.

Nova hasn’t stopped smiling since Ava Hutton ushered her into the kitchen and poured her the biggest glass of pink lemonade with a matching pink swirly straw.

I didn’t know what to expect coming here today, but the reception we received was beyond my wildest dreams. It’s like we didn’t leave, which sounds as crazy as it feels.

The endless swarm of people has also made it easy to ignore Oliver. Another bonus.

He’s done a great job of avoiding us thus far, but as everyone lines up along the white marble island in the Huttons’ monstrous kitchen, he pops up as expectantly as a pimple on prom night .

I clench the plate in my hands and try to ignore him as he waits behind me. The endless array of prepared food spread in front of us is a bit overwhelming, but I start with the bowl of pasta salad that I won’t eat, but I know Nova will.

“My mom’s taking care of Nova,” Oliver mutters, suddenly beside me and jerking his chin to the end of the island, where Gracie’s helping Nova plate her food.

“How do you know I’m not plating my own food?”

He eyes the pasta salad. “Call it intuition.”

“Yeah, right. I didn’t ask her to help Nova. I’ve been serving my daughter just fine on my own for seven years now.”

“Never said you haven’t been. My mom loves doing stuff like this. You didn’t have to ask her.”

It almost makes me smile. It’s been a long time since I haven’t had to make Nova a plate before thinking about myself. Having been around Chris’ family as often as I was for years, I’m used to accepting the scraps left by the time I’m done making sure she gets enough to eat. He certainly wasn’t going to make sure I was plated up before he was.

“Might want to hurry up, though. I’m starving,” Oliver adds.

I cock a brow and grab the tongs buried in the bowl of garden salad, leaving it there, not moving. “Should have lined up before me, then.”

He shifts his big body into my space and reaches across my arm to grab the pasta salad spoon that I abandoned. I get a waft of his cologne and grit my jaw at how good it smells.

My annoyance grows tenfold when he drops a whopping scoop of the salad on my plate and reaches for the roasted carrots next, adding them to the growing pile of food.

The chunks of hard-boiled eggs in the pasta salad make my stomach curdle, and at the first whiff of them, I’m suddenly wishing for another smell of his cologne.

“What’s with the face?” he asks, and one glance up exposes his humour with the situation .

This guy didn’t even remember me when he saw me; there’s no damn way he remembers how much I hate eggs. Not after this long.

Yet that’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why he’s smirking and watching me try not to throw up all over the island.

I part my lips on a wide grin and push the nausea down. “Nothing. I just really, really love eggs.”

With a scroll of my eyes over all the food, I spot the one I need and lean forward on my toes to snag the spoon set inside its container. I’m still grinning sweetly when I dump the cheese-sauce-covered brussels sprouts on his plate and reach for the mashed potatoes, adding them so close that they touch.

“You said you were hungry. I just want to make sure you get enough food,” I say.

His eyes are wide as he stares at the cheese sauce pooling on and around the potatoes. I look away from him long enough to put the garden salad I wanted on my plate before moving along the island and adding a grilled chicken breast to it.

I’m unprepared for the wallop of orange potatoes that smothers my chicken and salad. I crinkle my nose and whip my head to the side. Oliver pushes the serving spoon back into the sweet potato mash as slowly as possible, holding my stare. “Your plate was missing a starch” is all he says.

My steel will keeps my smile in place as I grab the gravy boat. “Thank you. I forget my food groups sometimes.”

“You’re wel?—”

His words die when I begin to cover his plate in gravy. The thick brown sauce seeps into his potatoes and soaks his brussels sprouts. A dinner roll he must have grabbed in the past few seconds grows soggy before I set the boat back down and shuffle forward along the island.

He’s silent as I make to grab a fork and knife, but he’s not done. I jerk to the side when he takes a container of grated Parmesan cheese and dumps some all over my food. The smell is immediate, and I gag, turning my head to the side to try and avoid it as much as possible.

“So, you can remember all of the foods that make me want to vomit, but you couldn’t actually recognize me?” I hiss beneath my breath.

He blinks, as if he’s surprised by my angry question. “I recognize you now.”

“Too little, too late.”

I snatch a fork and go to leave before fingers wrap around my wrist, their hold strong but not painful. One shake and I guarantee I’d be set free.

“You don’t look like you did ten years ago,” he defends.

“The key words there are ‘ten years ago,’ Oliver. I’m not the girl I was back then.” And you’re not the guy you were either.

The sixteen-year-old boy who ignored me like he was trying to score first place in some imaginary avoid-Avery contest. I didn’t pay much attention to his actions then, and I can’t say that I wanted to think about them much afterward. He was young. We both were. But the lack of communication that followed my family’s departure back to Sweden that last time . . . I’ll never forget that.

“So don’t hold it against me that I didn’t recognize you. Last time I saw you, you had black hair and piercings and liked dark makeup.”

His words are growing in volume, drawing the attention of others around us. Not everyone looks at us, though, and I can only imagine that it’s because they’ve been already watching us for a while now. Long enough to have seen why both of our plates look like the one everyone uses to scrape scraps onto after a meal.

My cheeks grow warm at the attention. It makes it easier to shake my wrist free and leave Oliver standing there, his excuses not meaning a damn thing to me.

It’s fine that he didn’t recognize me. Clearly, he decided during my last visit here ten years ago that I wasn’t worth remembering. It’s totally fine. Not hurtful at all. I don’t even care.

I most definitely didn’t stalk him on social media for years, drooling over his photos and checking every day for a follow back.

I’m far too old to be concerned over that sort of thing. Again, it doesn’t matter.

Pissing him off constantly now has given me more enjoyment than a follow back years ago would have. And I don’t plan on stopping that particular action either. Not when seeing his scowl is so soothing to my wounded pride.

And scowl does he ever. Sitting beside Nova as we eat, I chit-chat with Gracie, Ava, and Tinsley and watch Oliver across the kitchen. He sits at a smaller table and forces the food from his plate into his mouth and swallows, his throat straining as he tries not to retch.

Jamie is sitting on his left with his dad on his right, both of them staring at him. His dad is more subtle with his entertainment, but Jamie is loud, poking fun at him for everyone to hear.

“Eat a brussels sprout next, Ollie,” he begs, egging him on.

When Oliver slides one into his mouth and gags, unable to keep the noise in, Maddox slides up behind him and pats his back.

He waves a hand over his plate. “What’s with your dinner? You hate literally all of this. Is it a bet? If so, I want in.”

Jamie’s laugh is loud but warm. “Nah, no bet. Go have a look at Avery’s plate.”

I glare at him with the heat of a thousand suns. Maddox heads my way, and I have to crane my head back to meet his eyes. He’s even bigger than Oliver but not as aggravating, so I don’t mind him.

He sets a hand on his mom’s shoulder and eyes my plate. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you eat a hard-boiled egg.”

“What do you mean? They’re one of my favourite foods.”

“She hates eggs. They smell like farts,” Nova pipes up, grinning like a menace .

Maddox winks at her. “Yeah, they sure do.”

“I’ve grown to love them in the past few minutes, actually,” I say stubbornly.

Jamie blurts out, “The two of them were flirting at the island or something and ended up with two nasty plates.”

I balk. “We weren’t flirting.”

“Oh, it was foreplay if I’ve ever seen it.”

“Don’t talk about foreplay at the table, Jamieson,” Gracie scolds. “There are kids around.”

“My bad. Sorry.”

“I’m sad I missed the entertainment,” Maddox says with an indecipherable look at Oliver.

I ignore it and continue scraping the sweet potato mash from my chicken. Whatever “bro” moment they’re having, I don’t want any part in it.

“Your mom was telling me about your flower shop the other day,” Ava says, changing the subject. I smile appreciatively at her. The last thing I want is for everyone to think I’m even slightly interested in Oliver. “We’d love to come by and help get it ready. I imagine it’s been quite a feat.”

“I’d appreciate that. It’s a really nice space, but it needs some TLC. I’m hoping to open up in a couple of months. Definitely before winter.”

“I wouldn’t let Ava anywhere near your flowers. She’s got the blackest thumb of all black thumbs. They’ll die if she so much as breathes on them,” Gracie says.

Ava gives her a shove. “Ouch, Gray.”

I cut a piece of chicken with the edge of my fork. “My mom’s the same way. I was the one taking care of the plants back home. Dad, too, sometimes.”

“Maybe you can teach me how to keep them alive. Just me. Not Gracie,” Ava says.

Gracie meets my eyes and winks. “It’ll be our secret.”

“For real, I’d really appreciate your help. Nova starts school tomorrow, and then I’ll be at the shop pretty much all the time,” I tell them, hoping I don’t sound desperate.

The two women just nod and smile, happy with my offer. We continue eating in comfortable silence, and only once I’ve managed to slip every piece of egg from my salad onto Nova’s plate do I risk a look at the smaller table. Oliver’s no longer there, and for some ridiculous reason, I wish that he were.