Page 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Andrew

Leo’s expression reminds me of the time I accidentally deployed untested code to our production servers at NovaCore.

“So that was Justin Morris,” he says flatly. “Justin Morris, your high school bully, who you were plotting revenge against. The same Justin Morris you apparently just had shower sex with.”

I clutch my towel tighter, suddenly very aware I’m having this conversation practically naked. The physical evidence of what Justin and I have been doing for the past week is written all over me—the mark on my collarbone from his mouth, the slight ache in my muscles that reminds me how thoroughly he took me apart this morning.

“It’s fucked up. What the hell are you thinking, sleeping with him?”

“I was thinking he’s hot, and I wanted to get laid.” The words are crude, and unfortunately, Leo knows me well enough that he’s not having any of it. He fixes his dark eyes on me with his signature cut-the-crap look, the one that made even Silicon Valley’s most aggressive investors squirm in their chairs.

And it appears it still works because words suddenly spill from my mouth. “I like him, okay? I don’t know how, given everything he did to me, and I hated the high school version of Justin, but that’s not who he is anymore!”

My voice cracks on the last word. Because how do I describe the way my heart races every time Justin sends me a message or how seeing him light up when I walk into a room makes me feel like I’m finally worth something?

“He probably bullied you in part because he was scared of being gay himself,” Leo says.

“I know. I know that! And I don’t know if it makes it better or worse… It just means I understand it.” I’m breathing rapidly as I rake my hand through my hair. “And he had crap going on at home, some serious crap, and I can totally see how it led to what he did to me in high school. But he’s not like that anymore. He’s actually the sweetest guy. He’s really caring and?—”

“What’s your end goal here?” Leo interrupts.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you guys are hooking up. Where’s it going to lead?”

I sink onto my couch, the leather cool against my bare legs. My mind floods with memories of this past week. Justin’s gentle hands on my skin, how he always holds me after sex like I’m something precious.

“Because, eventually, he’s going to find out who you are, you know that, right? If you keep this up, he’s going to work it out,” Leo continues.

“No, he won’t.” I meet Leo’s eyes defiantly.

Leo’s forehead furrows, but I don’t stop talking.

“I’m the first guy he’s been with. I just want to help him… Help him feel more comfortable in his sexuality.”

Leo drags his hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe away what I’ve just said. He paces my living room, each turn getting shorter and more agitated until he spins back to face me with such force that my coffee table inches backward.

“I was wrong before. This is not fucked up. It’s beyond fucked up. Like so far beyond, we passed fucked up fifty miles ago. You can’t be some kind of sex therapist to your high school bully, Andrew.”

“I’m not pretending to be a therapist. But you’ve seen what he looks like, right? Can you imagine the types of guys who’ll target him on hookup apps? Or if he goes to a gay bar? He deserves his first experiences to be with someone who knows him as a person, who sees past what he looks like.”

Leo raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And you’ve decided to take one for the team? Expand the sexual horizons of the gorgeous baby gay?”

“You don’t get it. He’s not—” The words catch in my throat as I remember Justin’s vulnerability when he told me about his stepfather, about living in constant fear of not being man enough. “He’s been hurt badly in the past. He’s—” I can’t finish the sentence.

“Oh my god, Andrew, are you actually listening to yourself? You’re saying he’s been hurt in the past. Imagine how he’ll feel when he discovers the truth about who you really are!”

“It’ll fizzle out. He’ll never need to know. He’ll be propositioned by some gorgeous guy, and he’ll end it with me and will never need to find out the truth.”

Leo fixes me with another one of his looks. “What if it doesn’t fizzle out? What happens then?”

I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for the past hour, attempting to distract myself from my conversation with Leo by doing some work. But my mind keeps circling back to Leo’s words. Eventually, he’s going to find out who you are.

My phone buzzes. A message from Justin.

Missing you. Want to come over tonight?

Heat floods my face even as guilt churns in my stomach. The easy intimacy of his words makes something twist inside me.

A week ago, the idea of Justin Morris sending me messages saying he misses me would have seemed as likely as my parents understanding what I actually do for a living.

But now…now it feels natural.

Want to get dinner in Covent Garden instead?

Covent Garden has been on our list of places to visit, so it’s not weird for me to suggest it.

And I like the idea of meeting up with Justin on neutral territory. Somewhere we won’t fall into bed together.

Hopefully, it will help me think more clearly, work out the exact odds of hurting Justin now compared to hurting him more sometime down the track.

His reply comes quickly.

Sure. Though at this time of year, Covent Garden basically looks like Christmas threw up everywhere.

You make it sound so appealing.

What can I say? I’m a sales person. I’m the master of persuasion.

When he knocks on my door, Justin greets me with a smile, looking unfairly gorgeous in a soft gray sweater that makes me want to run my hands over it. Over him.

And haul him into my apartment so I can have my wicked way with him.

No. We’re doing public spaces tonight. That’s the whole point.

The Sunday evening tube is quiet enough that we easily find seats, but Justin sits close enough that our shoulders touch. And it shows me how monumentally stupid I am to think that being in any kind of proximity to him would help me untangle the mess of my mind. What part of me thought that staring into those amazing eyes would help me think clearly?

“I’m sorry for this afternoon,” I try to keep my voice casual. “I obviously didn’t realize Leo would turn up like that.”

“Is everything okay with him? Things seemed a bit tense between you.” Justin’s voice is hesitant, his eyes studying me.

I blow out a deep breath, adjusting my glasses. “Yeah, things are fine. Leo’s… Well, he’s known me for a long time, so he’s quite protective of me.”

“I hope you told him he doesn’t need to protect you from me,” Justin says.

No, with you, I need protection from myself.

“Yeah, I think he gets that.”

I fidget with my phone, pulling up the Covent Garden website like it requires my complete concentration.

“So, apparently, this amazing gelato place in Covent Garden does a Christmas pudding flavor. Though I’m not sure if that’s brilliant or horrifying.”

“My vote leans toward horrifying,” Justin says, and our conversation moves to discussing the weirdest flavors of ice cream we’ve ever tasted.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about Christmas throwing up everywhere,” I say as we enter Covent Garden.

The converted market building glows like something from a fantasy novel. Thousands of white lights transform the Victorian ironwork into delicate lacework and a massive Christmas tree towers over the plaza. Even the street performers seem to have gotten into the spirit, with a living statue painted entirely in gold wearing a Santa hat and a juggler tossing batons wrapped in sparkly tinsel.

“Wait until you see the giant reindeer,” Justin says. “It’s basically a twenty-foot-tall mirror ball with antlers.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Oh, it absolutely is. Small children cry when they see it.”

We find sanctuary in a tiny Italian restaurant tucked away from the Christmas crowds. The candles on each table flicker in a conspiratorial way.

“So, how long have you known Leo for?” Justin asks after we’ve ordered.

I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat. “I met him when I was in college.”

Justin frowns. “I didn’t realize he’s our age.”

“He was a mature student,” I lie.

Lies. More lies. How have I turned into this compulsive liar?

The guilt bubbles up suddenly, unexpectedly, like a pot boiling over. “I had a hard time in high school.” I blurt the words out so abruptly that Justin freezes as he’s reaching for the bread basket.

He blinks at me, returning his hand to his lap.

“That’s why he’s so protective of me,” I continue, my words coming out fast and free now. “Leo knows I’ve got some…unresolved issues from that time.”

Unresolved issues. What a delightfully sanitized way of saying, “I’m currently dating the guy who made my teenage years feel like a personally curated hell. And oh, by the way, I originally planned to get revenge on you but accidentally fell into bed with you instead.”

Justin’s expression shifts to something softer. “Did someone hurt you?”

My throat tightens. I stare at the candle flame, gathering my courage before answering. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. I was bullied pretty badly in high school.”

“How badly?”

“The kind that makes your life hell for four years straight.” I lift my gaze, watching Justin’s face carefully as I say the words. “Being gay, being geeky, being bad at sports—I hit the teenage torment trifecta.”

Justin’s expression clouds with sympathy, but there’s no recognition in those ocean-colored eyes. No hint that he remembers being part of that hell.

“God, Drew, I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.” The genuine pain in his voice makes something twist inside me. Here he is, radiating concern for wounds he helped create while I’m drowning in the irony of it all.

“It was.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “The worst part wasn’t even the physical stuff—the shoulder checks in the hallway, the books being knocked out of my hands. It was the constant fear, never knowing when they’d decide you were the day’s entertainment. The way they’d laugh…”

I break off as our food arrives.

The dishes look amazing. There’s handmade ravioli stuffed with wild mushrooms and linguine tangled with seafood and cherry tomatoes.

When our server leaves, Justin ignores the food to reach across the table and take my hand. His thumb strokes my knuckles.

“I’m really sorry you had to go through that,” he says.

His eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing but sincerity and understanding that feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

He still doesn’t see me.

He’s literally holding my hand, staring at me, Andrew Yates, who’s telling him about how I was bullied in high school, and he still doesn’t recognize me.

How can the person who seems to see me the most in the world still not realize the history we share?

My stomach clenches.

The gentle pressure of Justin’s fingers against mine sends contradictory signals through my system, with comfort, guilt, desire, and shame all tangling together.

I carefully extract my hand, picking up my fork, my hand shaking slightly.

“Yeah, well, it got better in college. Turns out being good with computers is actually considered useful in the real world.”

“I think DTL Enterprises would describe your skills more as lifesaving than useful,” Justin says.

“Well, someone has to save Dave from accidentally deleting the entire sales database while trying to organize his fantasy football league,” I say.

Justin laughs. “I’m pretty sure the marketing department has a shrine to you hidden in the supply closet.”

“More like they’re just praying I’ll stop sending passive-aggressive emails about proper password hygiene.”

Justin gives me a cheeky grin. “What, you’re telling me Password123 isn’t enhanced security?”

“Nope, it’s not. No matter how enthusiastically you add exclamation points,” I deadpan.

My muscles unclench as Justin and I trade stories about office mishaps between bites of pasta, my storm of conflicting emotions receding. Because our conversation reminds me that the Justin I know now is different from the Justin I knew in high school.

“Hey, we should go to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland after this,” Justin says suddenly.

“What’s the Winter Wonderland?”

“Picture the North Pole having a midlife crisis and moving to London,” Justin says. “Complete with enough mulled wine to keep Santa’s elves drunk for eternity.”

I can’t help laughing.

I laugh even more when Justin’s description turns out to be correct. When we reach the Winter Wonderland, it does seem like someone gave a five-year-old an unlimited decorating budget and a concerning amount of fairy lights.

Rollercoasters curl through the darkness like mechanical serpents while the scent of candied almonds battles with the savory smell of German sausages.

Justin bounces from stall to stall like he’s just discovered Christmas for the first time. He keeps grabbing my arm to point out increasingly ridiculous decorations.

“What about this?” He brandishes a bauble shaped like a pickle wearing a Santa hat. “Very sophisticated.”

“I think that crosses the line from festive into concerning,” I say. “Though it would give your cats another chance to judge your life choices.”

“Very true.” He holds up an ornament of what looks like Santa doing yoga on a surfboard. Because, apparently, nothing captures the spirit of Christmas quite like Father Christmas working on his downward dog. “What do you think my cats would think of this?”

“Pretty sure Cassie would start a protest movement. Felines Against Festive Faux Paws ,” I say.

Justin laughs. But then his expression shifts to something more tentative. “Speaking of the holidays… Do you have plans for Christmas?”

I adjust my glasses, suddenly fascinated by a nearby display of singing penguins. “Oh, you know. Just the usual festive microwave dinner for one. Though I might splurge and get the luxury version with actual turkey instead of turkey-adjacent protein.”

“That’s not happening.” Justin’s voice is determined. “You should come to my place. I’ve been thinking it’s about time I attempt to cook a proper British Christmas dinner.”

Christmas is three weeks away. Can I handle keeping up this charade for three weeks? Suddenly, the weight of all the lies between us feels like it’s choking me.

But Justin is watching me, and while I hesitate, he scratches the back of his neck, a flush creeping up his collar. “I’d really like you to be there. I mean, someone needs to witness my first attempt at bread sauce.”

Shit. Saying no right now will hurt him.

And that’s the last thing I want to do.

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Justin’s resulting smile is so warm that it makes December in London feel suddenly tropical.

And okay, I shouldn’t be making plans with him, but I still need to work out what the hell I’m going to do. How to retract myself from Justin’s life and leave behind minimal damage. It involves neutralizing the Xander issue. In a non-serial killer way.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight, I’m just going to enjoy being here.

Justin has just bought us paper cones of hot roasted chestnuts when I recognize a person walking toward us.

It’s Cheryl from HR. Her hair is loose around her face rather than in its usual stiff ponytail and she’s holding hands with a guy who looks like he moonlights as a rock star.

“Incoming,” I say in a low voice. “Do you want to pretend we just ran into each other here?”

Justin glances up. He stares directly at Cheryl, but there is only blankness on his face.

“Who is it?” he asks.

But I don’t have time to answer before Cheryl is upon us.

“Hello, you two. Fancy seeing you here.” Her voice has shed its HR polish, softened by what I suspect is several glasses of mulled wine.

I send a nervous glance at Justin because I’m not sure if he’s worried about Cheryl realizing we’re on a date.

Justin’s face is a generic mask.

“Hey, how are you?” he asks. His eyes flick between Cheryl and her boyfriend, and there’s a furrow between his brows.

“This is my boyfriend, Joesph,” she says. “Joesph, these are my colleagues, Justin and Drew.”

“Nice to meet you.”

We exchange pleasantries and then make small talk about the Winter Wonderland and the Christmas party next week.

Justin’s face has cleared during our conversation.

“You picked the perfect night to come,” he tells Cheryl and Joesph. “Apparently, they’re doing some special Christmas light show at nine.”

“That sounds like fun,” Cheryl says.

“Although I’m just repeating what the very enthusiastic guy dressed as an elf told me, so maybe verify that before planning your evening around it.”

“We’ll check it out,” Cheryl promises. “Anyway, nice to see you guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Justin says.

As Cheryl and Joesph walk away, my brain starts to churn, pinging through a whole series of seemingly unrelated memories.

Justin’s behavior over the past few minutes interacting with Cheryl. Ping.

That day at Wimbledon, when he didn’t spot where the sales team was seated. Ping.

Also at Wimbledon, when he didn’t realize I’d been talking to Catherine Zhang until Dave mentioned it. Ping.

And the realization blooms in my head, causing me to spin around to stare at Justin.

“You didn’t recognize her at first, did you?”