Page 59 of The Revenge Game

“It’s just basic coding,” I say, trying to ignore how close he is and the scent of his sandalwood cologne. “Nothing complicated.”

“Still, thank you so much for helping. The shelter really needs this fundraiser to work.”

The gratitude in his voice makes my stomach clench. Because this is exactly what I wanted, right? To get closer to Justin, to make him trust me, to have him value our friendship.

So, therefore, being a good friend is just part of my mission. If Justin grows to like me, he’ll feel more guilty about what he did to me when we were teenagers.

And I’m allowed to enjoy myself because it would be suspicious if I didn’t.

But my revenge plan never accounted for the way Justin’s face lights up when he’s explaining something he’s passionate about or how he remembers tiny details about things I mentioned weeks ago.

Spending this much time with him has allowed me to see more examples of Justin’s genuine kindness, and there’s no way he can be faking it all.

Somehow, Justin Morris has transformed from a bully into a guy who volunteers at animal shelters, goes out of his way to feed unhoused people, and covered Dave’s entire workload without being asked when Dave’s mom was in the hospital, then acted like it was no big deal when Dave tried to thank him.

“I’m happy to help,” I say.

His eyes catch on mine, and he scratches the back of his neck, his expression uncertain.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Maria’s given me a ticket for you for the auction as a thank-you for all your hard work on the website. And I thought if you want to come, maybe we could catch an Uber together?” He ducks his head, his usual coordination deserting him as he nearly knocks over his coffee mug, catching it with a self-deprecating laugh.

My mouth goes dry, and I force my salivary glands to work so I can reply.

“Yeah, okay, that sounds like fun. What’s the dress code?”

“Uh…it’s always quite formal. But you don’t need to spend much money. You can probably find something at a thrift store.”

“I’m sure I can rustle something up.”

I make a mental note to send a request to my personal shopper—a suit suitable for a charity fundraiser for an IT guy in his mid-twenties without much dress sense but has tried hard to find a decent suit.

I really am a challenging client sometimes.

Justin stands from the couch and heads toward the kitchen. “You want to stay for dinner? I’ve been trying to perfect my sauce recipe for my stir-fry, and I could use a taste-tester who isn’t a cat.”

Justin is currently feeding me dinner several times a week. I think he’s taking pity on me after seeing that my diet consists primarily of microwave meals.

“Okay. While you’re cooking, I’ll try to finish the real-time bid tracking,” I say.

While Justin bustles around in the kitchen, I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of coding. The sounds of Justin cooking and his cats investigating the food preparation become a pleasant background soundtrack to my work.

And when he comes over to the table with two steaming plates of stir-fry, Justin watches me demolish the meal with an expression caught somewhere between pride and amusement.

“What do you think of the sauce? I tried adding star anise and honey to the usual recipe. Thought it might be interesting to experiment a bit.”

“If this is what experimenting tastes like, then you should definitely keep questioning culinary convention,” I reply through a mouthful.

He ducks his head, a pink flush creeping up his neck. “Thanks. Glad you like it.”

I can’t get over the fact that Justin Morris seems to genuinely care about my opinion.

“I think my taste buds are now filing a formal complaint about all the microwave meals I’ve subjected them to,” I say.

Justin’s interest in cooking is another one of the many contradictions between Justin now and Justin in high school. Back then, he was the epitome of a jock, strutting down hallways in his letterman jacket like he owned them, high-fiving his football buddies while making loud jokes about protein shakesand bench-press records. He’d flex his biceps for giggling cheerleaders and talk endlessly about his workout routine.

So, despite trying to avoid asking Justin questions about his life back in America, I can’t help one slipping from my lips now.

“Was it your mom who inspired your interest in cooking?”