Page 47 of The Revenge Game

Drew laughs, and I try to prevent the flush of satisfaction that goes through me at the sound.

I fail miserably.

And it’s the confidence that his laugh brings that has my next words falling out of my mouth.

“Are you doing anything this Saturday?”

Drew’s laughter stops abruptly.

Oh fuck, does he think I’m asking him out on a date? Did that sound like a date-like request? I almost start hyperventilating at the thought.

I stumble to explain. “One of our suppliers gave the sales team some tickets to Wimbledon, and I just thought you’ve probably never been to Wimbledon, right? And I still feel I oweyou for fixing all my tech stuff, so if you’re interested, I could suggest you for one of the tickets. I’m sure Roger won’t object. He knows how useful you’ve been to the whole department.”

“I don’t know…” Drew shifts his weight, his hand absently rearranging the sugar packets on the counter into neat rows. “Sports aren’t really my thing.”

“But Wimbledon isn’t just about sports,” I say. “It’s this bizarre mix of British traditions that make absolutely no sense, but everyone treats them like they’re written in stone. Like the strawberries.”

Drew’s eyebrows shoot up. “There are traditions around strawberries?”

“Yup. There’s this big tradition in Wimbledon around having strawberries and cream. They go through something like twenty-seven tons of strawberries during the tournament. And there’s set dimensions the strawberries have to be.”

Drew blinks at me. “You’re making this up.”

“I swear I’m not. They take their strawberry logistics very seriously.” I lean against the counter, trying to look casual while my stomach does that weird swoop thing again. “Plus, they have Pimm’s.”

“What’s Pimm’s?”

“It’s this drink that’s basically summer in a glass. Though the fruit they put in it has a tendency to launch surprise attacks when you least expect it. I nearly got taken out by a rogue cucumber slice last year.”

Drew’s mouth twitches. “Sounds hazardous.”

“Oh, trust me, it can be.”

Drew takes a careful sip of his coffee and seems to be deliberating. “Okay, I’ll come. But I’m not pretending to understand what a love-fifteen score means.”

“Deal,” I say. “Though I should warn you that if it rains, the British spectators treat it like an immersive theater experience.They actually cheer for the people pulling the covers over the court.”

“Well, if I’m going to watch people wrestle with a tarp, at least I know it comes with strawberries.”

I laugh, and his mouth quirks into that almost-smile.

“I’ll arrange everything with Roger and email you, okay?”

“Okay.”

As I head back to my desk, I try not to think about how getting Drew to agree to come to Wimbledon with me feels like a bigger win than landing the three major accounts at the trade show.

I fail miserably at that too.

Chapter Fourteen

Andrew

On Saturday morning, I stand awkwardly in front of the mirror in cream chinos and a light-blue button-down shirt.

Apparently, a certain standard of dress is expected from spectators at Wimbledon, and after consulting British etiquette guides, I quickly determined my generic IT-guy wardrobe wouldn’t cut it.

My personal shopper assured me my current outfit strikes the perfect balance between “respectable tennis spectator” and “definitely not trying too hard.”