His Greatest Treasure (Greatest Love #4)

Chapter 17

17

AVERY

I don’t get home until past dinnertime. Once Nova was buckled into the back seat of Chris’ car and out of sight, that familiar sense of overhanging loneliness hit, and I buried it beneath hours of manual labour.

My back and arms ache as I step onto the curb outside my house and lock my car doors behind me. The small weight of the beaded key chains Nova’s made me over the years feel too heavy in my hand, even compared to the bottle of wine red in my other one. I need a long bath and to sift through the takeout menus in my junk drawer until I find something I can drown my sorrows in.

If I called and asked Adalyn, she might be up for joining me, but then again, she has a family of her own now. Tinsley is back in Toronto with Noah, and Maddox’s wife, Braxton, and I have never been all that close. The women in our giant found family are slim in numbers compared to the men. It’s never felt more unfair than right now.

Inside my empty, silent home, I kick off my shoes and head straight for bed, takeout be damned. The TV I bought for my room leans against the wall opposite the bed and beside the wall mount I’ve been meaning to hang. It would probably help if I had a drill or something, but I don’t know shit about tools. Not unless they come in the shape of a man.

I sneak a peek at the window that looks into Oliver’s bedroom to make sure the blinds are down before tossing the wine bottle onto my mattress and beginning to strip.

Naked, I sniff my armpit as if needing proof that I do, in fact, stink like sweat and then hop in the shower. I stay beneath the hot water for longer than I do when Nova’s home and lean my forehead against the cool tiles, my eyes drifting shut.

Surely it would be pathetic for a thirty-year-old woman to call her mom and beg her to watch a movie with her over Skype, right?

I tried the whole taking myself out for dinner thing a couple of weeks ago, and all it did was make me feel shittier about my lack of friends.

“Fuck,” I groan before turning the water off and stepping out of the tub.

Ten minutes later, I’ve slipped on a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, brushed through my hair, and applied enough anti-wrinkle cream to cover the faces of at least five different women.

Once I’ve popped the bottle of wine in the kitchen and grabbed my extra-large glass from the cupboard, there’s a knock on the door. It’s a loud, pounding one that has me immediately on edge, knowing damn well who’s responsible for it.

I leave the wine on the counter and then tug the bottom of my tank top as I go to the door. A second round of knocking starts when I’m two steps from answering. My glare is already fixed in place as I twist the deadbolt and swing open the door.

“You’re incredibly impatient,” I say, getting an eyeful of Oliver’s back.

He spins at the sound of my voice, his hand dropping from where he was gripping the back of his neck. The flush to his cheeks has to be from the heat . . .

“Sorry. Didn’t know if you could hear it or not.”

“I was only in the kitchen. ”

He jerks his head in a nod and swallows before blinking four times in quick succession. When his eyes fall to take in my outfit, I’m the one flushing all the way down to the soles of my feet. Pupils swelling in the sea of deep brown, he checks me out blatantly, maybe completely unaware that he’s doing so. Weeks ago, I might have been offended by this type of attention, but now, his interest in my physical appearance makes me ache in a way I haven’t in a long, long time.

Dropping a hand to my jutted hip, I wait for him to look up again, my tongue too twisted to tell him to stop ogling my tits and the inward curve of my waist where my blue silk top is too cropped to cover. By the time he’s basking my naked thighs in the heat from his intense stare, I’m helpless to the draw of squeezing them together in hopes of soothing the intense pulsing in my core.

He notices my fidgeting. Fuck me, his lips part on a long, tight exhale before he grips the edge of the door in a hold tight enough for the veins on the back of his hand to strain and snaps his eyes up to mine.

“Do you always answer the door dressed like this?” he asks, and so help me, I think my nipples bead from the gruff words alone.

I nip at the inside of my cheek hard enough to bring me out of my lustful haze. “Maybe. What does it matter to you?”

“Nothing. Just isn’t safe.”

Unable to help myself, I raise a brow and ask, “Am I in danger right now, Oliver?”

It takes him a minute to answer, those long, strong fingers tightening on the door. “No, princess. I’m not a danger to you.”

I hear every word he doesn’t speak aloud. I’m not in danger yet, but I might be if I keep poking the bear.

“What did you need, butternalle ?” I ask, attempting to sound bored.

His eyes spark at the nickname, but he leaves it be. “Have you eaten? ”

“Dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner. Have you eaten dinner?” he asks, frustration leaking from the words.

“No. I was going to have a liquid dinner of red wine and then order something for dessert.”

He inhales and exhales twice before speaking again. “I accidentally made too much food for just me. Do you want—are you hungry?”

“What did you make?”

I’m already going to say yes, regardless of what he made. I don’t know why or how, but one simple offer from him and a blast of warmth sends my loneliness abandoning ship, disappearing.

“I grilled a couple steaks. There’s a salad too . . .”

“How do you accidentally cook two steaks instead of one?”

He shifts on his feet, lips twitching. “It fell onto the grill, and I couldn’t waste it.”

“Right,” I muse, fighting back a smile of my own. “Do you like wine?”

“It’s not my drink of choice, but I don’t hate it.”

“I’ll bring the bottle I was going to drink on my own, then. Give me a sec,” I say before leaving him in the doorway to grab the bottle.

“Do you want to change first?” He raises his voice so it reaches me, and I shiver at the power in it.

I grip the bottle hard and head back toward the door. “No. I like what I’m wearing now. It’s comfortable.”

And I know you like it.

He coughs, and I reach him just in time to watch as he adjusts the front of his jeans and grips the bulge . . .

My temperature spikes, eyes glued onto the stiff movements of his hand before he releases himself and shifts.

“Ready to go?” he asks tightly.

I bounce my eyes back up to his and tip my chin, snagging my keys from the hook on the wall. “Lead the way. I’ve just got to lock up.”

He swipes my keys and ushers me around his body with a hot hand burning the skin of my lower back. “I’ve got it.”

“I’m capable of locking my own door.”

“I know. You’re capable of anything.”

My tongue swells in my mouth. I don’t know how I’m able to form a coherent sentence, but I manage somehow.

“You’re being nice tonight. Why?”

He tucks my keys into the pocket of his jeans, and I make a mental note to take them back before the end of the night.

Walking across our front lawns side by side instead of across from one another after a prank showdown is a completely different experience. I haven’t been inside of Oliver’s house before, and my palms are sweating now that it’s happening.

“I can be nice, Avery,” he grunts.

“Are you going to prank me the moment I step in your front door? Is that it?”

“Keep pushing me and maybe I will.”

My laugh is short but loud. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not going to prank you. I figured you’d be hungry, and with Nova gone, I wasn’t sure if you’d make a meal for yourself big enough to restore all the energy you spent at the store today.”

I roll my lips inward, staring down at my feet smooshing his grass when the urge to smile starts to eat at me. “So, you didn’t accidentally drop a steak, then.”

“No, princess. I didn’t.”

The confirmation that he cooked dinner for me because he was worried . . . I stop keeping the three inches of distance between us and cautiously move closer.

He either doesn’t notice my sudden closeness or finds it okay because he doesn’t move away. Even when we climb the front steps, he stays beside me, our shoulders knocking on the way to the top.

A key ring that doesn’t resemble mine in the slightest with the lack of bright, handmade accessories slips over his thumb before he unlocks his front door and ushers us inside.

“Our layouts are pretty similar. I replaced the flooring on both levels last year and updated the kitchen a bit. Took out the old sink and put in a new one, then painted the cabinets,” he says, holding the door open with his arm for me to head in first.

I survey the space and grow jealous of the dark wood floors that put my scratched orangey-brown ones to shame. The upgrade is obvious, and I’m a second from asking—begging—him to help me with mine when he interrupts my train of thought.

“Come and eat. I don’t want the food to get too cold.”

“Did you do any more renovations other than the floors and the kitchen?” I ask, too curious not to.

“Yes. There were two extra bedrooms upstairs, so I turned one into a gym. And the basement wasn’t finished when I bought the place, so I hung the drywall, painted, and carried the hardwood down there. The bathroom is still a work in progress.”

“So, you’re a real-life Bob the Builder, then.”

“I watch a lot of YouTube tutorials,” he says, his palm skimming my back again, this time swiping up my spine. “The kitchen, Avery. I’ll show you all of the renovations after you eat.”

Refusing to purr like a cat at the affectionate touch, I let him guide me down the hall and through the archway that opens into the kitchen. The floor plan is identical to my house, just a lot brighter due to the lack of brown walls.

His kitchen sink is a white farmhouse one instead of the double steel kind, and the cabinets are a deep green that’s emphasized by the marble countertops and white tile backsplash.

“You did a good job,” I tell him sincerely, watching as he shifts away from me to grab two plates from the corner cabinet.

Setting them beside the one already on the counter with two thick steaks on it, he says, “Thanks. My dad helped a lot.”

“How often do you see your family?”

“A few times a week and a big dinner every Sunday.” He starts dishing up our plates and piles a heaping serving of pasta salad on my plate next to the steak. “There’s no eggs in it.”

“Really? You didn’t want to take the opportunity to make me eat them again?”

“No. Once was enough.”

I don’t reply, and a comfortable silence settles over us while he digs utensils out of a drawer and then hands me my food.

“I won’t be able to eat all of this,” I gasp at the mountain of food.

He jostles a shoulder. “Try. I think I remembered how you liked it cooked. Brown with a little pink, right?”

“Yes.” My heart bangs around in my chest when I realize he’s cut the steak into bite-sized pieces already.

“If you tell me that you’re capable of cutting your own steak, I’ll hand feed it to you.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Good. Do you want to eat on the couch?”

He carries his plate over to me and stands close, searching my face as he waits for an answer. The piles of food on my plate don’t come close to what’s on his. It’s not surprising, considering how massive he is and what he does for a living, but it takes me aback anyway.

“If you have cable, I’d love to sit on the couch.”

“You still don’t have any?”

“No. I’m going to start calling a couple of other companies this week.”

He nods, and we step into the living room. His TV is mounted on the wall above a long, slim table with a gaming system and two controllers on it. The L-shaped couch takes up the majority of the room but doesn’t make it feel too small. It’s a warm cream colour, with cushions that look thick and comfortable and a few deep green throw pillows that match the kitchen cabinets.

“Do you ever spill on the couch? That colour would never last in my house. Nova spills anything and everything on ours. ”

He glances at the couch, inspecting it. “I have one of those little green fabric-cleaning machines. Maddox’s son has spilled a number of foods on it so far.”

“Do you watch his son here often?”

“No. They’re in Ottawa most of the year. I’ve hosted dinner here a couple of times. Jamie’s made a mess more than Liam, I’m sure.”

I nod, looking around the rest of the room. A man like Oliver doesn’t scream book enthusiast, but the stacked bookshelf against the wall that separates the living space from the front hall has me rethinking that. I don’t recognize any of the thick titles, but they look mostly non-fiction.

Three books at the end of the bottom shelf have me setting my plate down and dropping to a crouch, leaning in for a closer look. Recognition sparks at the children’s book titles.

“Nova had these when she was a toddler. She loved them,” I say softly, tracing the spines of each one.

He moves behind me and leans over my head, his presence heavy and comforting . I fight back a flush and stay focused on the books.

“Once Liam’s a bit older, I’m sure the two of them will get along well,” he says. “I can give you a tour of the rest of the house after you eat.”

“Who said I was staying long enough to get a tour once I’m finished?”

He drops a hand to my shoulder, and my muscles quiver beneath his fingers— not a fucking exaggeration either. I stare directly ahead at the books and focus on my breathing when he sweeps his palm along my arm and gently holds my elbow. Using the hold to pull me onto my feet, he turns me so we’re face to face.

I stare at the swooped neckline of his shirt and fidget, more nervous than I’ve been in a long time. They aren’t bad nerves, necessarily, just . . . ones I’m not used to feeling. The jittery variety that reminds me of high school crushes and giggling at lame jokes beneath the football field bleachers.

He stretches an arm past me and then brings my plate back in front of my chest. I take it quickly, seizing the chance to busy my hands.

“I recorded Survivor for you,” he says.

My eyes jump to his. “You did?”

Maybe he doesn’t notice the excitement in my tone because he doesn’t say anything about it as he releases my arm and moves to the couch, sitting on the middle cushion. “Couldn’t get access to the ones that have already played on TV, so I recorded the newest one and bought the earlier ones. Where were you before you lost your cable?”

“I only saw the premiere,” I mutter loosely, too surprised to speak any other way.

“Episode two, then.”

He loads up the episodes he’s purchased on the TV and waits for me to sit before starting the second one. I peel my feet from where they’ve stuck to the floor and join him.

My fingers cramp as I release them from their iron grip on the plate and set it on my lap. The lack of distance I’ve kept between us when I sat on the cushion beside him was natural. I want to be close to him. I’d have moved closer even if I hadn’t wanted to spook the both of us.

The familiar intro song plays on the speakers he has hung on the wall on either side of the TV, and I take my first bite of the food in front of me. A mix of flavours attacks my taste buds as the steak melts on my tongue, and my stomach growls.

I snap my head to the side to see if he heard it, and when he looks at me with a smirk, I laugh. It feels good and sounds even better. A light feeling floats through me then, and I take another bite, turning my attention back to the screen.

Maybe Oliver isn’t all that bad.

He does make a killer steak, after all.