Page 10 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

She pasted on her most professional smile (which felt more like baring teeth). “Whether I hate you or not,” she said sweetly. “Depends. Is your corgi going to tackle me this time or just judge me from afar?”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed again. This time it sounded like he meant it.

Rhys grinned. “I’d say he’s open to negotiations. He responds well to cheese.”

Linda blinked. Then slowly lowered a single cube toward the corgi.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sniffed it... then delicately took it from her palm.

“See?” Rhys said, sounding far too pleased. “You’re already winning him over.”

Linda narrowed her eyes. “This is a long con, isn’t it? First the alarm clock. Now this weirdly charming dog.”

Rhys tilted his head, amused. “What alarm clock?”

She huffed. “Exactly.”

Sara reappeared with two mini quiches and the look of someone who lives for chaos but supports her friends.

“Well, I’ve got to mingle,” she said innocently. “You two behave—or don’t.”

And just like that, Linda was left alone. With the man. And the corgi.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sat on her foot.

She stared down at him.

“Don’t bite. Or pee,” she whispered.

Rhys laughed. “He does that when he likes someone.”

Linda crossed her arms. “I don’t trust him.”

“Because he’s winning?”

“Because he’s short and powerful. That’s never a good combination.”

Rhys leaned in slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You realize that applies to you, too.”

Linda blinked. She shouldn’t like this. She absolutely, one hundred percent should not be noticing how good he smelled or how easy his smile was or how the dog had strategically weaponized cuteness to break down her defenses.

But here she was. Holding a plate of sweaty cheese cubes. On the edge of betrayal.

Well.

Damn.

“Dance?”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot barked once. Possibly in agreement.

Linda sighed dramatically. “Fine. One dance. But if the dog cuts in, I’m gone.”

“Deal,” Rhys said, offering his arm like they were in a regency drama and not standing under a string of discount party lights next to a lukewarm spinach dip.

She took it—reluctantly—but not before giving Sir Stumps a warning glance.

“Try anything,” she whispered to the dog, “and I swear I’ll replace your bowtie with one of those cones of shame and a passive-aggressive Post-it.”

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