Page 33 of The Revenge Game

“Yeah. I’m sorry it happened too.” Justin peels the label off his beer bottle in methodical strips that match his careful words. “But she’s definitely better away from him.”

He raises his gaze to meet mine and his eyes seem a more intense blue-green than usual. “What about you? What is your family like? Are your parents still together?”

“Yeah, they’re still together,” I say.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have one sister who’s five years older than me.”

“I’m an only child,” Justin offers.

Shit. I didn’t ask him whether he had siblings, did I? Because I already know Justin Morris is an only child.

Does he think it’s weird I didn’t ask him?

And is telling him about my sister going to clue him in to my real identity? Although I doubt he paid attention to the fact that Andrew Yates, the nerd he picked on in high school, had an older sister.

I focus on breaking off a piece of cornbread, my mind churning. I need to move this conversation past our families or any other things related to our lives back in the States before I trip up.

Work. Work is good.

“So, you said last night that your presentation went well,” I say.

Justin swirls his spoon through his chili. “Yeah, it went really well. Which is good because we’ve got a trade show at the end of next week. I struggle more at those, so it’s nice to get a big win in the bag before then.”

“Why do you struggle at trade shows?”

Justin struggling at anything seems to counter everything I know about him.

“I don’t know.” He sets his spoon down carefully against the edge of his bowl. “I should love trade shows because I love talking to people, you know? But I actually find them too…intense. I’m fine for one-day trade shows, but I find multi-day trade shows really stressful, trying to keep track of who I’ve already spoken to.”

He raises his gaze to mine, a small crease marring his perfect forehead.

The idea that Justin gets stressed about trade shows is like discovering Superman gets anxious about flying. It doesn’t match my memories of the golden-boy quarterback who can charm anyone.

“I would have thought working a crowd would be second nature to you.” I catch myself after the words leave my mouth, but Justin doesn’t seem to find my words suspicious.

“That’s the problem, everyone assumes that. So when I mess up, it feels ten times worse.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Like I’m failing at being myself.”

I have no idea how to reply to that.

“But enough about my social anxiety,” Justin says, reaching for more cornbread. “What’s the latest in the IT department? Please tell me I’m not the only numpty whose technology is misbehaving.”

I try to channel Drew the IT help desk technician as I answer Justin. “Oh, trust me, you’re definitely not alone. Yesterday, someone panicked because their mouse wasn’t working, andafter twenty minutes of troubleshooting, we discovered they’d been trying to use their stapler as a mouse. Apparently, they look similar enough.”

Justin laughs, and a warm flush spreads through me at the sound.

I continue to tell Justin some of my work stories and he laughs in all the right places.

It’s not until Justin is laughing at my descriptions of how three different people submitted urgent IT tickets yesterday because they “lost” their files, only for me to show them they’d just minimized their windows, that I realize we’ve long since finished eating.

The relaxed feeling drains from my body and my stomach tightens. Is he wondering why I’m still here now that we’ve finished dinner? Is it weird that I’ve lingered longer than eating the meal required? Am I once again failing at some social protocol everyone else seems to inherently understand?

Shit, this is like being back in high school, second-guessing myself constantly.

“Are you okay?”

I hate that Justin is looking at me with concerned eyes. Because those eyes never saw me as worth being concerned over before. Those eyes don’t evenrememberme.