Page 33 of His Greatest Treasure

I let it fill the yard and chase her again and again for what feels like hours, not stopping out of fear of losing her laugh again.

12

AVERY

We’reall red and sticky by the time we’ve spread the Jello-O all over the yard. There are clumps in the grass, on my tanning chair beneath the pool umbrella, and even stuck inside the holes in the chain-link fence.

Nova hasn’t stopped giggling since Oliver threw the first fistful, and it’s made things all the more complicated. How am I supposed to be angry about the mess and my ruined pool when she’s so happy? Especially after the stressful first two days she’s had at school.

The nerves of starting a new school in a new place have made my daughter more closed off at school than she’s ever been. She shied away from the kids in her class when I dropped her off and picked her up, and that’s just not like her.

Maybe it’s just first-week jitters . . .

“Can Oliver stay for dinner, Mom?”

I shrink into myself a bit at the question, my gut reaction being to say no. An hour of laughter with me and my daughter doesn’t erase everything prior. But damn it all to hell, when Nova grips my sticky hands and bats her lashes at me, there’s only ever one correct answer.

“I’ll ask him if he wants to join us. He might be busy,” I tell her.

I don’t want to look over to where I know Oliver’s back on his side of the fence, wiping his neck and chest with a towel. One that he stole from the back of my lounge chair before he scuttered from my yard like a rat. Shit. I look anyway.

The thick ridges of his abdomen ripple as he leans the slightest bit backward and drags the towel along them, spending way too much time cleaning in between each one. His hair is a mess, strands sticking up left and right with clumps of red gelatine. The waistband of his swim trunks hangs low on his hips and ride up high on his thighs, at least a couple of inches above his knees. And they’re tighter than they should be. I’d prefer if he wore full-length loose pants instead.

I half expected to see him sporting a farmer’s tan, but no. He’s golden all over. Sun-kissed like a swimwear model straight from Cali.

Tilting my head to the side, I jab my thumb along the ridge of my bottom lip to make sure I’m not drooling before asking, “Do you have dinner plans?”

When he whips his head toward us with both his brows up in surprise, I contemplate begging the earth to swallow me whole. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now.

“No,” he answers, curiosity thick in his tone.

“Do you want some?”

His body shifts until we’re standing face to face, only the chains of the fence between us. “Will my food be poisoned?”

“That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

There’s a minuscule twitch of his lip as he lifts the towel to the back of his neck and wipes it clean. “Dinner would be nice.”

“Okay,” I say, beyond awkward.

Truthfully, I blame this all on my freakish obsession with online stalking him. That’s the only reason why I can’t stop finding myself in such compromising positions likethis. I was enamoured with him for so many years that it must have caused my brain to misfire.

“I’ll shower first.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” I rush out.

“Is this a truce?”

“For tonight. I’m not letting the pool go unanswered.”

He turns away from me, and a second later, his back shakes, almost as if he’s laughing? The silent type that he doesn’t want me to see.

“When do you want me to come?” he asks a tad breathlessly.

“Half an hour?”

“Alright.”

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