Page 16

Chapter Sixteen

Andrew

The rest of summer flies by and fall begins. Or autumn, as they call it here, because, apparently, a season that paints the world in oranges and reds needs a fancier name than just fall.

Xander continues his one-person show of World’s Most Dedicated Employee while Adam alternates between patronizingly dispensing wisdom about NovaCore like he’s sharing the secrets of the universe and berating me when he suspects I’ve not followed his instructions. “ It’s outside your skillset to run a system diagnostic, Drew. You need to understand your limitations .”

Meanwhile, I quietly optimize the code to make everything run thirty percent faster without anyone noticing.

The IT tickets keep flowing in. Apparently, teaching people that rebooting fixes most problems is like trying to convince Marleen from Accounting that others should be allowed to use her mug.

“But if you trained us to fix the problems ourselves, you’d be out of a job,” Sarah from Accounting says when I complain about how Pete from Sales still can’t grasp the concept of “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” even after I made him a flowchart with stickers.

“This morning, I had to explain to the CEO that his monitor’s broken screen was actually just his screensaver. I’m not particularly feeling like my job is threatened,” I say, and Sarah laughs.

This has been another nice aspect of my job. It turns out IT tickets are great opportunities for connection. After I helped Sarah recover her wedding photos, she insisted on shouting me lunch, which somehow turned into us having lunch on a weekly basis. I enjoy her updates about the latest company gossip, which include a rundown on the great office plant war between Marketing and Accounting, where both departments claim ownership of a fern that neither actually bought.

I never realized how isolating being the CEO was until the experience of sharing terrible coffee with Sarah while she dramatically reenacts the latest episode of Who Stole My Lunch From The Communal Fridge ?

But even though I really enjoy my job, for the first time in my life, I find myself counting the hours until the weekend.

Back when I was CEO of NovaCore, weekends were just extensions of the work week. I just saw them as more time to work with fewer distractions.

But now my weekends are filled with Justin dragging me to different tourist attractions, arguing he’s doing his duty as a colleague and fellow American to ensure I don’t miss out on all of London’s cultural experiences.

And it’s been…fun.

At the Tower of London, Justin insisted on making up increasingly ridiculous stories about what the crown jewels were originally designed for. “That scepter?” he whispered, nodding toward the golden staff. “Medieval back scratcher. Royalty had very specific itches that needed expert attention.”

In Westminster Abbey, I found myself explaining the history of computing to Justin in Poets’ Corner, talking about how Ada Lovelace wrote the first computer program while standing in front of her father Lord Byron’s memorial. Justin had listened intently, asking genuine questions, until I realized I’d been talking for half an hour and started to apologize.

“Don’t apologize,” Justin said. “I…uh…like seeing you get excited about stuff.”

His cheeks had tinged pink after he said that, and he’d stuffed his hands in his pockets and become very interested in studying a memorial inscription. When he finally looked back at me, something soft in his expression made my chest tighten before he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject.

Today at The Natural History Museum, I discover Justin’s hidden talent for creating stories about how various fossils ended up in such weird positions.

“This one clearly died from embarrassment after showing up to the wrong extinction event,” he says about a particularly dramatic-looking specimen, which has me laughing so hard a security guard comes over to check on us.

These visits are nothing like my solo wanderings through Europe’s tourist spots. Then, I’d dutifully follow audio guides around museums, trying to feel cultured while mainly feeling lonely.

It’s amazing how having someone to visit these attractions with completely transforms the experience.

Especially someone like Justin, who often makes me look closer at things I would have skimmed past.

I didn’t expect this from Justin Morris. He keeps surprising me.

As we head out of the museum, Justin checks his phone.

“Maria just sent me the promo photos for the auction. Are you okay to come to my place after this to help load them?”

“Sure.”

That’s the other thing I’ve been doing in my free time. Helping Justin set up the auction website for the Second Chances Animal Shelter fundraiser.

We’ve been tackling it in the evenings after work, huddled together in his apartment while his cats supervise our progress.

When we return to his apartment this afternoon, Tabitha immediately claims my lap while I settle on the couch, her purrs vibrating through me as Justin pulls up the auction website on his laptop. Cassie takes up her usual position of judgmental oversight from the back of the couch.

The auction items range from the practical—dog-grooming services and pet photography sessions—to the slightly less practical, like the chance to name the shelter’s next litter of kittens. Someone’s even donated their Cornwall beach house for a weekend getaway. But the headline item is definitely A Date with London’s Most Eligible Animal Lover .

“These photos are terrible,” Justin says as he scrolls through the options for his auction profile. “I look like I’m posing for a budget romance novel cover.”

Yeah, terrible wouldn’t be my go-to word for the photos.

The professional lighting just emphasizes Justin’s incredible good looks, the lines of his cheekbones sharp enough to cast their own shadows, his throat a perfect column above the carefully casual collar of his shirt. The addition of cute animals interacting with a handsome man breaks several laws of cuteness physics like someone’s figured out how to weaponize adorable.

I have to swallow hard before I can reply.

“What would be the name of the romance novel?” I ask. “ Paws and Prejudice ?”

“ A Tail of Animal Attraction ?” Justin counters. He flicks to the next photo. “Oh god, delete that one. Moose was trying to eat my face.”

I glance at the photo. “I actually think Moose was just demonstrating an important auction bidding technique. The highest slobberer wins.”

Justin turns to me, his eyes shining with laughter, and I have to look away.

We finally settle on a photo of Justin surrounded by puppies from the latest rescue litter. His head is thrown back in genuine laughter as one of the puppies attempts to climb up his chest while another enthusiastically licks his ear.

“Your cats are going to be jealous when they see this,” I say, uploading the photo to the website.

“Cassie and Tabitha know they’re the ones who truly own my heart,” Justin says. “Though they might make me sleep on the couch for a week.”

“I think it’s optimistic of you to assume they’ll let you on their couch,” I reply, and Justin laughs.

As I finish setting up the bidding parameters, Justin peers over my shoulder. “You’re really good at this stuff.”

I can’t handle the admiration in his voice.

“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 shakes and 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?”

Justin’s shoulders stiffen. “Uh…not really. I mean, I used to do some cooking and baking when I was a kid with my mom…” He fidgets with his fork. “But my stepfather… After he came to live with us, he had very definite ideas of what a man should do, and cooking or baking wasn’t one of them.”

It’s not the first time Justin has mentioned his stepfather in a negative manner. And judging by the way his jaw has tightened, there’s obviously more to the story.

But I don’t want to ask him any more questions about his childhood because that would mean navigating a minefield of memories he doesn’t know we share, where one wrong step could blow my carefully constructed present to pieces.

“How did you get so good at cooking then?” I ask instead.

“I watch lots of YouTube videos.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing on this planet that YouTube can’t teach you.”

“Except maybe explaining to Cassie why she can’t have fourth breakfast. Trust me, I’ve searched.”

I laugh.

After we’ve eaten, we do the dishes together, continuing our ongoing debate about whether his three-stage rinsing protocol counts as performance art or mild obsession.

Then, I show him the latest changes I’ve made to the auction website. There’s a live fundraising thermometer, complete with animated fireworks that trigger at certain milestones and virtual pawprints that appear with each new bid, tracking the shelter’s progress toward the fundraising goal.

His eyes light up like I’ve just shown him magic instead of code.

“This is amazing,” Justin says. “Seriously…like, you’re just amazing.”

His stunning eyes catch on mine, and there’s nothing but sincerity and admiration there.

“Uh…thanks.”

I have to wrench my gaze from his.

Yeah, the guilt phase of my plan doesn’t seem to be going quite as I expected.

Unless the aim was to make myself feel guilty. Then it’s going tremendously.