Page 58 of The Revenge Game
In Westminster Abbey, I found myself explaining the history of computing to Justin in Poets’ Corner, talking about how AdaLovelace 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 definitelyA 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.
