Page 101 of The Revenge Game

My stomach clenches.

The gentle pressure of Justin’s fingers against mine sends contradictory signals through my system, with comfort, guilt, desire, and shame all tangling together.

I carefully extract my hand, picking up my fork, my hand shaking slightly.

“Yeah, well, it got better in college. Turns out being good with computers is actually considered useful in the real world.”

“I think DTL Enterprises would describe your skills more as lifesaving than useful,” Justin says.

“Well, someone has to save Dave from accidentally deleting the entire sales database while trying to organize his fantasy football league,” I say.

Justin laughs. “I’m pretty sure the marketing department has a shrine to you hidden in the supply closet.”

“More like they’re just praying I’ll stop sending passive-aggressive emails about proper password hygiene.”

Justin gives me a cheeky grin. “What, you’re telling mePassword123isn’t enhanced security?”

“Nope, it’s not. No matter how enthusiastically you add exclamation points,” I deadpan.

My muscles unclench as Justin and I trade stories about office mishaps between bites of pasta, my storm of conflicting emotions receding. Because our conversation reminds me thatthe Justin I know now is different from the Justin I knew in high school.

“Hey, we should go to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland after this,” Justin says suddenly.

“What’s the Winter Wonderland?”

“Picture the North Pole having a midlife crisis and moving to London,” Justin says. “Complete with enough mulled wine to keep Santa’s elves drunk for eternity.”

I can’t help laughing.

I laugh even more when Justin’s description turns out to be correct. When we reach the Winter Wonderland, it does seem like someone gave a five-year-old an unlimited decorating budget and a concerning amount of fairy lights.

Rollercoasters curl through the darkness like mechanical serpents while the scent of candied almonds battles with the savory smell of German sausages.

Justin bounces from stall to stall like he’s just discovered Christmas for the first time. He keeps grabbing my arm to point out increasingly ridiculous decorations.

“What about this?” He brandishes a bauble shaped like a pickle wearing a Santa hat. “Very sophisticated.”

“I think that crosses the line from festive into concerning,” I say. “Though it would give your cats another chance to judge your life choices.”

“Very true.” He holds up an ornament of what looks like Santa doing yoga on a surfboard. Because, apparently, nothing captures the spirit of Christmas quite like Father Christmas working on his downward dog. “What do you think my cats would think of this?”

“Pretty sure Cassie would start a protest movement.Felines Against Festive Faux Paws,” I say.

Justin laughs. But then his expression shifts to something more tentative. “Speaking of the holidays… Do you have plans for Christmas?”

I adjust my glasses, suddenly fascinated by a nearby display of singing penguins. “Oh, you know. Just the usual festive microwave dinner for one. Though I might splurge and get the luxury version with actual turkey instead of turkey-adjacent protein.”

“That’s not happening.” Justin’s voice is determined. “You should come to my place. I’ve been thinking it’s about time I attempt to cook a proper British Christmas dinner.”

Christmas is three weeks away. Can I handle keeping up this charade for three weeks? Suddenly, the weight of all the lies between us feels like it’s choking me.

But Justin is watching me, and while I hesitate, he scratches the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his collar. “I’d really like you to be there. I mean, someone needs to witness my first attempt at bread sauce.”

Shit. Saying no right now will hurt him.

And that’s the last thing I want to do.

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”