Page 7 of His Greatest Treasure

“It’s dirty too.”

“It’s going to be dirty, honey. Nobody has cleaned it in forever, I’m sure.”

“Behöver jag göra det?” she asks, disgusted enough with the idea of cleaning the place that she asks the question in Swedish.

“No, Nova. You don’t have to clean it. But keep up the attitude, and maybe that will change.”

She shakes her head, tight blonde curls swishing around her face. “What attitude?”

“You forget that speaking in Swedish to hide your real words only works if you’re around someone who doesn’t also speak it.” I wink and set my purse on the counter.

The surface of it is dirty too. But it’s sturdy and shines in the sunlight poking through the filthy windows. A little bit of surface cleaner and it’ll be as good as new. Hopefully.

The same can thankfully be said for the rest of the shop. The front of it, at least. I’ve only ventured to the back once before I put a bid on the building, but one look into the bathroom had me wanting to demolish it instead of cleaning it.

If it weren’t for the beautiful black-framed windows on the front side of the shop, the pale blue herringbone tile flooring, and the large walk-in cooler, I’d have passed on the place. It was expensive—too expensive for the size and location—but after one look inside, I couldn’t pass it up.

“When do we get to go home? I want to unpack my room.”

“We’ve been here for five minutes.”

“I’m bored.”

Planting my hands on my hips, I cock a brow. “I can always change my mind and get you started on the cleaning today.”

“No, thank you.”

“Then just stay bored for a couple more minutes. I have to do something really quick, and then we can leave.”

She huffs, all four feet of her bubbling with a disturbing amount of attitude. Even for a seven-year-old. “Fine.”

In all honesty, we didn’t need to come here today. The electrician I called in to take a look at the place isn’t coming until tomorrow, and I’m too tired from hauling all of our boxes into our new house this morning to tackle cleaning any form of mess right now.

I just needed to get away from the house for a while. The conversation I had this morning with our next-door neighbour has lingered in my head all day, and I’ve grown angry now that I’ve stewed on it for hours.

Oliver Bateman clearly doesn’t remember me, but I remember him. I’d have to swap my brain out for another to forget him and all of the childhood memories I have that include him and his sulky presence.

He’s the son of one set of my parents’ lifelong friends. Tyler and Gracie Bateman went to university with my mom and dad. My dad and Oliver’s even played on the same junior hockey team for a while. That was before my parents moved to Sweden so Dad could play hockey there, but that didn’t stop us from visiting them.

It was only once a year, but I saw the Batemans multiple times over the course of my early life. We were young the last time I was around Oliver, though. Ten years ago, he was only sixteen, and I was twenty. I hate to admit it, but it’s not that surprising he doesn’t remember me.

I’ve changed a lot since then, as has he. No longer the scrawny, pimple-faced teen that used to sit and sulk in corners by himself with a book in hand, he’s a man. One with a wide, sharp jaw and thick, rippling muscles that I had a hard time not ogling when he was barking at me in my front yard wearing nothing but sweatpants.

My face flushes as images of his chest pulsing with angry breaths and his huge, veiny hands and long fingers running through his messy black hair flash behindmy eyes. He was tall to the point that if I were closer to him, I’d have had to tip my head all the way back just to keep eye contact.

He was all grumpy, brutal man with an axe to grind with me, and I felt small and fragile in his presence, two traits that I never use to describe myself. It was like I was waiting for him to finish snapping at me, only to pick me up by the back of my shirt and flick me across the neighbourhood.

The only thing more mortifying than remembering our conversation clearly enough to recount it in my mind is knowing that he noticed the way I checked him out and was so disgusted by it that he grew even grumpier. As if I offended him by growing flushed at the sight of a half-naked, unfairly attractive man.

He can step barefoot on a pile of pine needles and thistle bushes for all I care. Clearly, while he’s grown physically, he’s stayed the same mentally, choosing to be a grumpy asshole all his life.

“Why are you glaring at the wall, Mom?” Nova asks, forcing me to reel myself back in.

I swallow to ease the dryness in my throat and force a smile on my face for my daughter. “You know what? Forget it. Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight before we head back?”

Her blue eyes twinkle at the suggestion as she jumps and claps her hands together. “Yes! Lucy’s?”

“As if we’d go anywhere else. Just let me lock up first.”

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