Page 51 of His Greatest Treasure

“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 andcomforting. 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 houseafteryou 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—nota 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 fieldbleachers.

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 recordedSurvivorfor 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’tallthat bad.

He does make a killer steak, after all.

18

OLIVER

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