Tis the Season for Revenge: A Holiday Romantic Comedy -
Tis the Season for Revenge: Chapter 4
An hour, another drink, and a lot of laughter later, we have a list of small, petty (but fully legal) things we can do to make Richard’s life a pain in the ass. The empty notebook I found hidden under a pile of bills, receipts, and junk is slowly being filed with my pink, bubbly handwriting.
The first page reads: “Project: Payback Dickhead.”
The list is three pages long, filled while we laughed and cackled and swiped through the dating app.
It’s been a fun night, despite how it started.
And bonus, one of the items on our list is already enacted.
I’ve changed his morning coffee order since chances are, he has no fucking clue I’m the one who orders him his specialty low-calorie, low-carb, fancy coffee every morning.
And he definitely has no clue how to do it himself.
Instead of his diet-friendly version, he’s getting a full fat, extra sugar one until his dumb ass figures it out. He was always worried about his appearance, sticking to a strictly reduced-calorie diet and rarely indulging. There were more than a few times during our years of dating he’d see what I was eating and chastised me, telling me I should think about going low carb.
Such a fucking asshole.
We’re giggling over plan two—canceling the delivery of the hair oils he uses since there’s no way he remembers where I bought them—-when I stop everything.
My face goes slack.
The world goes quiet.
I can hear nothing but my heart beating, nothing but the blood rushing in my ears.
I think Kat and Cami stop talking, staring at me, but my eyes are locked in place.
“No fucking way,” I say in a quiet murmur, staring at the phone.
“What?” Cami asks, looking over at me.
“No fucking way,” I repeat, standing, wobbling in my drunken state.
“Wow, babe, cool it before you crash.”
“NO FUCKING WAY!” I shout, bringing my phone closer to my face and staring in disbelief.
There is no way my luck is this good.
No fucking way in hell this just fell into my lap.
“Abs, what is going on?”
I look at my friends, both looking at me like they fear I’ve reached the next level of my mental breakdown.
No, I’ve just secured the world’s best revenge if I can make it happen.
“I’m gonna fuck his boss,” I say, the smile on my face the most genuine thing I’ve felt since the miserable day Richard Bartholomew Benson walked into my life.
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