Page 27 of His Greatest Treasure

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 gratedParmesan 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 actuallyrecognizeme?” I hiss beneath my breath.

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

“Too little, too late.”

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