Page 71 of The Revenge Game
“If the collectively-owned fork fits…”
He snorts with laughter, almost choking on his wine. “You know, I don’t think other people have problems sharing their food. Most people would be trying to impress their date with their dish-picking skills.”
The word “date” hangs between us before he hastily adds, “I mean, not that this is… You know, since you’re just filling in…”
“Right,” I say quickly. “Though we’ve established my diet mainly consists of microwave cuisine and whatever food you feed me in sympathy, so I’m not sure if food is my area to impress with.”
“How is your relationship with the M&S macaroni and cheese progressing?”
“We’re taking some time apart actually. I caught it seeing other microwaves behind my back.”
Justin’s laugh makes the couple at the next table turn to look at us, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Not when he’s looking at me like that, his eyes bright with amusement and something softer.
Instead, I carefully portion off a bite of my salmon and hold it out to him. “Here. Consider this reparation for impugning your culinary sharing ethics.”
Justin eyes my fork like it might be booby-trapped. “Are you sure you want to do this? Sharing food is a slippery slope.Next thing you know, you’ll be letting people borrow your phone charger.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” I say, trying to ignore how the light catches the hints of gold in his hair. “Though I draw the line at Netflix passwords.”
“The sacred hierarchy of sharing: food, chargers, streaming services. At least I know where I stand,” he says.
He accepts the bite with a flourish that shouldn’t be as charming as it is.
“That is really good,” he says after he swallows.
“Not as good as your chili though,” I say.
“Just wait until you try my experimental recipes,” Justin says, his eyes twinkling. “I’m thinking of combining Yorkshire pudding with Tex-Mex.”
“That sounds like a cultural incident waiting to happen,” I say. “We might need UN intervention.”
“Cultural fusion, Drew. It’s called cultural fusion.”
“I think fusion implies some level of harmony,” I say. “What you’re proposing sounds more like a hostile takeover.”
Justin laughs, and I get caught up in how his whole face transforms when he’s genuinely amused, making my stomach do increasingly complicated acrobatics.
As the server clears our plates, Justin surveys the restaurant.
“I think this is the fanciest place I’ve ever eaten at. I can’t believe we get to experience it for free.”
Actually, Justin, I paid seventy-five thousand pounds for this experience.
“It is pretty incredible,” I say instead.
“Do you think you’ll have room for dessert?”
“I’m sure I can be persuaded.”
After the server brings the dessert menus, Justin starts an animated analysis of which dessert to choose. But I’m finding it difficult to concentrate on something as mundane as dessert.
The way the city lights frame him through the window behind our table isn’t helping my concentration. Neither is the way he keeps leaning forward when he talks, like he’s sharing secrets meant just for me.
My stomach twists.
Oh, holy hell.
