Page 23 of The Revenge Game

“Cheers,” I reply.

He clinks his glass against mine nonchalantly like he’s in a beer commercial. Meanwhile, I grip my glass like I’m worried it might try to escape.

“Yeah, so…thanks again for all your help today. That pitch was really important,” Justin says.

“Did it go okay?” The words reluctantly leave my lips, but I’m aiming for Drew the good IT colleague here, and it occurs to me that is something I should ask.

“Yeah, it did, thanks. Though I kept waiting for my laptop to ask why my elbows look like baby potatoes.”

My snort escapes before I can stop it, and I quickly cover it with a cough.

“If your elbows look like baby potatoes, I suggest you get that looked at,” I reply. I intended the words to be slightly caustic, but Justin’s face lights up with a grin.

“I get the feeling that finding a specialist in potato-joint syndrome might be tricky with the NHS wait times,” he says.

And there it is again, the easy charm that radiates from Justin like he’s got his own personal Wi-Fi network of charisma.

Even though it was never directed at me, I witnessed his charm often in high school, watching him work his magic on teachers when his homework was late or sweet talk the cafeteria ladies into giving him extra fries.

Although I’m fairly sure the Justin from my high school memories never had this kind of self-deprecating humor.

It’s my turn to reply, but my mind is too busy wrestling with this new version of Justin.

“So, how long have you been in London?” Justin asks because, like any good salesperson, he knows how to keep a conversation flowing even when the other person is as responsive as a brick wall.

“Only a few months,” I say. It mirrors what I wrote on my résumé, where I stuck as close to the truth as possible so it would be easier to remember.

“And how are you finding it?” he asks.

“Better than Oklahoma,” I say.

Which is technically true since I’ve never been to Oklahoma.

“What made you decide to move here?”

“I needed a change.” I take a sip of my beer to avoid elaborating.

“Yeah.” He scratches his neck. “I know all about that.”

Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply, but he’s suddenly very interested in studying the bar’s collection of beer mats.

I know from my online stalking that Justin has been in London for three and a half years, which means he left Texas soon after college. Justin had gone to UT Austin on a football scholarship. He was the second-string quarterback.

Why had he been so eager to escape Texas? Surely he had everything he wanted there? In all my research into Justin’s life, I never contemplated that simple question.

I’m puzzling this over as the silence grows between us again. Shit. My small talk skills have never been great, but they are at a particularly low ebb right now.

“Is this your first job in London?” Justin asks.

Why is he making conversation with me? I guess it’s normal etiquette when you buy someone a drink, right? That you make conversation with them for the duration they take to drink it.

With that in mind, I take a few large gulps of my drink before I reply.

“I did some temp jobs until this one came up,” I say. Okay, so that’s not quite the truth. But “I sat in my ridiculously expensive hotel room on the top floor of the Ritz and conducted extensive research into how many clotted cream scones one could eat before the hotel staff start giving concerned looks” is slightly harder to explain.

“So, you’re still getting used to people asking ‘All right?’ but not actually expecting an answer?” Justin asks.

“Oh, totally. That, and getting used to how excited everyone gets when the sun appears.”