Page 70 of The Revenge Game

Justin’s jaw clenches. “No. I didn’t find it hard. I was pretty much done with Texas when I got the transfer offer.”

The server comes to clear the plates then, and the clink of expensive china being whisked away seems to snap us out of the intensity of the moment. We both lean back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload all that on you.” He runs his hand through his hair again, rumpling it at the back.

“It’s okay,” I say automatically.

“I’ve actually never told anyone all of that.”

I blink at him. The idea that I’m the first person Justin has told about his mother and stepfather sends unexpected warmth through me, followed immediately by guilt.

What right do I have to be his confidant?

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I say softly.

“Yeah, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

His words echo in my brain.

Aren’t those the exact words I said to Leo when I was talking about my high school experience?

The parallel leaves me breathless.

But before I have a chance to process, another server arrives with our next course. He sets our plates down with a practiced flair, and the aromas of lemongrass and coconut provide a welcome distraction.

“So,” Justin says, a grin returning to his face as he surveys his plate, “want to place bets on whether this pork belly is worth more than my coffee maker?”

I know his smile is forced because I now know the difference between Justin’s smooth, charming smile and his real smile. The corners of his mouth lift, but his eyes remain fixed, missing that subtle crinkle that appears when he’s genuinely amused.

But I understand what he’s doing. He’s trying to reset the tone of the evening, trying to wrap his confession in the comfort of our usual banter, using humor as emotional bubble wrap.

And I’m happy to oblige him if that’s what he needs.

“Considering your coffee maker sounds like it’s summoning ancient demons every time you make a cup, that’s a pretty low bar to clear.”

His laugh echoes across the table. “Hey, those are sophisticated brewing noises. Some people pay extra for that kind of ambiance.”

I watch as he cuts into his pork belly with surgical precision. The way his forearms flex as he handles his knife and fork shouldn’t be this distracting.

The salmon practically dissolves on my tongue. I can’t help the appreciative noise that escapes as I take another bite.

Justin seems equally impressed with his own dish.

“You have to try this,” he says, carefully constructing the perfect bite with a piece of crackling balanced on top and extending it toward me. “It’s like they’ve discovered a whole new dimension of crunchiness.”

I stare at the fork for a few seconds before I lean forward to take what he’s offering.

Is it my imagination, or does Justin’s gaze linger on my lips as I chew and swallow?

The combination of textures, with the crispy exterior giving way to tender meat, sends my taste buds into sensory overload.

“You’re right. That’s some extreme crunchiness,” I say. “But why do I feel like sharing it with me was a ploy to get your mouth on my salmon?”

Justin’s eyes twinkle. “Are you saying you’re not planning to share with me?”

I glance down at my plate. “Maybe I’m civilized and don’t believe in food communism.”

Justin raises an eyebrow. “Food communism? Is that what we’re calling it now?”