Page 11 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

Rhys chuckled as they moved to the “dance floor,” which was really just the tile between two folding tables.

“This is nice,” he said.

“This is tragic,” she corrected. “That’s a disco ball made out of spoon mirrors.”

“But you’re still here.”

“For the dog.”

“Obviously.”

He spun her—badly. It was more of an awkward pivot than a twirl, and Linda bumped into the folding table full of off-brand soda.

“Smooth,” she muttered.

“I’m trying not to step on you.”

“Try harder. I’m compact and emotionally fragile. And my dignity’s on thin ice since Tuesday.”

“The Interview Incident?”

She groaned. “Of course you know. You were involved.”

“And I’ve heard. But only from seven people.”

“I hate you with the heat of a thousand suns.”

“Shakespeare?” He laughed again, low and surprised, like she’d caught him off-guard. Like he liked that she kept catching him off-guard.

Linda thought maybe—not definitely, not permanently, butmaybe—this week was going to end better than it began.

Even if she was dancing with the enemy.

The music faded into something slower. Just enough to make Linda twitch.

She stepped back. “One dance. We had a deal.”

“You said if the dog cut in.”

“He’s thinking about it.”

They both glanced down.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot rolled onto his back with a sigh, completely done.

Linda shook her head. “Traitor.”

“To be fair,” Rhys said, “I think he wants a dog... aunt.” He winced at the end, and Linda looked down to see Sir Stumps-a-Lot had leaned his whole weight on a paw on Rhys’s foot.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot gave a contented grunt.

Linda narrowed her eyes. “He’s plotting something.”

Rhys smirked. “Probably.”

The corgi blinked once. Slowly. Like a general surveying a battlefield.

Friday night: conquered.

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