Page 28 of His Greatest Treasure

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.

---