“I think we’re good.” I gesture to the jam-packed table.
“Will you pass me the carton?” Nora asks me.
I hand her a dozen eggs from the stack in front of me. “Who is going to eat all these eggs?”
“We can make egg salad sandwiches for the crew,” Archer suggests.
We’ve had a staff of a dozen workers coming and going over the past few weeks: engineers, contractors, and architects surveying the property and helping to plan the rebuild.
I lean into him. “Such a problem solver.” I tip my head up, and he brushes his lips against mine.
“Gross. I will throw this at you.” Mindy holds up a blue egg.
“It would be worth it.” Archer squeezes my leg under the table.
Oliver catches my eye from across the table and offers a curt nod before returning his attention to his egg.
I hold back a laugh. He’s not so bad really. Certainly not the devil of New York that I thought he was. He is all bark but very little bite—unless you’re Ben, I guess. He might even have a soft, gooey center under all that bossy, overbearing exterior. He’s been here every weekend since we made our agreement, and he has good vision, I’ll give him that much.
Camp Aria is going to be amazing.
I have a little residual guilt for sniping at him that Piper wasn’t for him. His response was so . . . lonely. It reminds me of his background, of what he must have gone through as a child.
It’s not my place to decide who Piper dates. Not that it matters. I might have misread the whole thing. He barely looks at her. This is the first time they’ve been in the same room together since we got back, as far as I know. Maybe because of my harsh words?
Archer told me that I probably didn’t need to worry. Oliver doesn’t really do romantic entanglements, for a variety of reasons. Most women want him for his money, he’s had some issues with stalkers, and besides all that, he’s never been able to relate well to people—romantically or otherwise.
Oliver takes his egg out of a cup that now appears black and plops it into a red one. “I don’t understand the purpose of this activity. Seems like a waste of food.”
The entire table erupts into a debate.
“It’s a Persian tradition,” Mason says.
“Yeah, it started in Mesopotamia and was adopted by Christians or something,” Archer puts in.
“Eggs symbolize rebirth,” Taylor yells from the kitchen.
Mindy makes a face. “And death. I think they’re gross. Unless it’s eggs Benedict or deviled eggs.”
“I think they found fragments of decorated ostrich eggs in Africa dating back more than sixty thousand years,” Nora says.
Piper stands up suddenly, and conversation screeches to a halt. “I’ll . . . be right back. Just need some fresh air.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Fine.” She smiles, but it’s small and tight.
There’s a slight hesitation, and then Mindy speaks, distracting the table while Piper escapes. “There’s a restaurant in Le Parker Meridien that sells the most expensive omelet in the world. A thousand bucks, can you believe that?”
“It’s a frittata.” Oliver’s eyes follow Piper as she exits through the kitchen, heading to the side door. “And it’s stuffed with an entire lobster and topped with sevruga caviar.”
The conversation veers to food, and after a minute, Oliver stands and excuses himself, following Piper.
Weird. He’s been avoiding her. Is he going after her to badger her about her art?
I bite my lip. Should I follow?
Before I can turn the thought into action, Mindy stands up and goes after Oliver.