Page 9 of His Greatest Treasure

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’treallylet 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.

4

OLIVER

I’ve beenat Illumina Dance Studio for four hours now. The steady stream of parents and young kids has been never-ending. I’ve grown tired of reciting the same welcome speech with every new set of faces that approaches the table I’m stuck sitting behind.

I love helping my mom out in the place because she deserves the support. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to pluck my fingernails off one at a time as I’m forced to smile and pretend I’m interested in knowing about Mrs. Clark’s new poodle or the latest HOA decision for a neighbourhood I don’t even live in.

The two phone numbers I’ve been handed—one from a woman with enough kids to outfit an entire baseball team and another shoved beneath my nose by an old lady wanting me to take her granddaughter out—are hidden beneath my empty coffee cup. Out of sight and mind.

I tug at the collar of my shirt and shift in the hard plastic chair in an attempt to get comfortable. My ass is half-numb, but if I stand, I’ll lose the safety barrier the table gives me.

Dad picked Mom up an hour ago, insisting that I’ve kept her from him too long. In reality, she was only here for two before that, but my dad is a selfish bastard when it comes to her time. It’sa miracle he let us have as much time with her growing up as we did. I’m sure it justkilledhim.

I stretch my legs beneath the table and drop my chin to my chest. My hands are clasped and rest on my stomach as I close my eyes and push the chair back to balance on two legs.

“Don’t tell me you teach ballet.”

The snarky voice has me snapping my hands out to grip the edge of the table to avoid falling backward. I glare at the woman in front of the table before noticing the smaller version of her standing beside her and inwardly wincing.

The girl is short.Dainty, Mom would call her. She has wide blue eyes that stare at me with a slight murderous glint that would scare me if she were older and bigger. Blonde hair that’s brighter and has fewer brown streaks than her mother’s has been parted down the centre of her head and braided neatly. They have the same narrow nose and soft bone structure, making their relation that much more obvious.

Mother and daughter, if I had to bet.

I look from the girl back to the woman. “What are you doing here?”

“You know, at this rate, you’d be better off writing me a list of things I’m not allowed to do and places I’m not allowed to visit,” my new neighbour snarks.

“Would you listen if I did?”

A laugh builds in her throat but doesn’t escape fully. “Not a chance. I’d light it on fire.”

“I’m Nova. This is my mom,” the girl says, taking a step toward the table. She shoots her hand out in front of her and lets it hover over the stacks of papers and pens. The murderous glint in her eyes has dulled, now more curious than anything else. “It’s nice to meet you.”

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