Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Everyone who lived there was nice. It was nothing like you see on TV or anything. It was… just a neighborhood. And barbecuing was a huge thing. So every weekend in the summer it was just nothing but tantalizing smells.” I sigh. Then again, I say, “It was nice.”
“So you had a good childhood, huh?”
I open a cupboard, find glasses and grab two. Then put them on the small table near the window. “I did. How about you?”
He grins at me. And even through the billowing curtains, I can see this grin. “Let’s not go there.”
I find the plates and take those over to the table as well. “Oh. Hmm. I’m really sorry.”
He’s stacking ribs on a platter. Then he pushes through the curtains and places the platter in the center of the table. “Don’t be. It could’ve been worse. And anyway, I’m here now. I mean…” He chuckles. “This fucking Institute, right? It’s the elite of the elite.”
“Yeah.” I pause and watch him gather up some silverware from a drawer. He grabs two cloth napkins too, then hands them to me and turns back to the fridge to grab some wine.
Not champagne, thank God.
“I’m really not sure what to make of this place, if I’m being honest. I can’t quite piece it together.”
Olsen is pouring the wine as I create two place settings. He hands me the glasses—which I put on the table—then shoves his huge man-hands into a set of oven mitts.
I lean against the counter and enjoy this. He’s… normal. Like me. Nothing at all like Mercer and Locke. And he’s not cryptic. Why do rich people have to be so cryptic all the time?
“It’s definitely an enigma.” He pulls a glass dish out of the oven, places it on the stove, then peels back a layer of foil to reveal our side dish.
I point to the creamy macaroni and cheese. “Velveeta?”
He actually guffaws and I suddenly feel like… I dunno. Relaxed, or something.
No. Well, yes. Relaxed. But my revelation is that when I’m with Mercer and Locke, I’m a little tense. A little off. A little… on guard. Like I need to protect myself from these men.
But with Olsen I feel… safe.
“You wound my heart, woman.” He huffs. “Velveeta.”
We both laugh.
He gets a trivet—and oh, my God. This might be the best moment of my life. A trivet. To protect his laminate table top. And then he places the steaming casserole dish of homemade mac and cheese next to the ribs.
Olsen points to the chair closest to me. “Sit.”
I smile and sit as he grabs an already-made salad from the fridge and sits across from me. The table is vintage diner. Maybe authentic, maybe a knock-off. And it’s small. There is barely enough room for the place settings and the three dishes of food.
He offers me both hands and I just stare at them for a moment.
“You don’t say grace?”
Again, I just stare at him.
“Nova?”
“Umm… yeah.” I reach over the food, take his hands in mine, and then he bows his head.
I don’t bow my head. I watch him as he starts his prayer of thanks. I don’t know why I’m so surprised—especially after all the surprises I’ve had since arriving on this island—but this stuns me in a way I can’t quite describe.
God.
I didn’t see that one coming.
“Amen,” Olsen says.
I repeat it. Then we drop our hands and he serves me dinner. “Dig in.”
Ribs. It’s not a date food, is it? It’s messy and there is no way to eat it delicately.
Olsen dives into his, not caring at all that his fingers are covered in barbeque sauce. “Do you know,” he says, still chewing. He takes a moment to swallow. “Do you know”—he laughs before he can finish—“that Locke and Mercer both eat ribs with a knife and fork?”
I laugh too. “I can so picture that.” Then I pick up my ribs and take a bite. Almost moaning, that’s how delicious they are.
“I like Locke,” Olsen says. “Mercer, though. He’s a dick. We’re not friends. But whatever, he leaves me alone, I leave him alone, and it’s all good. But I want you to know that I do like Locke. So if I say things like this, it’s all in fun.”
“I get it. I like Locke too. But he’s even more cryptic than Mercer. So I don’t know if I like him more, but I do like him.”
Olsen shakes his head. “No. No one is more cryptic than Mercer, Nova. Please keep that in mind.”
“You say that like it’s a warning.”
“Oh, it is. Trust me. You’ll understand one day. One day, that project you’re on will be over and the pretenses will be dropped.”
“What do you know about the project?”
He lets out a breath. Gets up, fills two bowls with water and places them on the table. I watch as he dips his cloth napkin in the water and cleans up his hands.