Page 13 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

The worst idea she’d ever had emerged fully formed from the ash heap of her dignity.

“We should get brunch sometime.”

She didn’t plan it. She didn’t eventhinkit. It justescaped, like her brain had short-circuited and decided to take her down with it.

Rhys blinked. “Brunch?”

“You know,” she said, hands flying to the emergency buttons like she could slap the words back into her mouth. “As friends. Or colleagues. Or enemies. Frenemies? Friendly enemies with breakfast meats?”

Rhys blinked again, clearly buffering.

“Sure,” he said, slowly. “I like brunch.”

Linda nodded too fast. “Cool. Normal. Casual brunch. With food. That we eat. Great.”

The elevator dinged again. Fifth floor.

They stepped out.

She didn’t look at him.

She walked straight into the hallway, dignity trailing behind her like a broken shoelace—the last word echoing in her chest: brunch. Why had she said brunch? Why was brunch her emotional Hail Mary?

Chapter Seven: Brunch Prep and Canine Negotiations

Rhys

SIR STUMPS-A-LOT HAD earned a cheeseburger, a bacon treat, and a whole damn pup cup.

The dog had dragged him towards Linda like a fairy goddog on a mission last Friday. Sat on her foot and performed a miracle: Linda had spoken to him. Voluntarily. No glaring. No veiled threats involving alarm clocks. Actual words. Sentences, even. With syllables and everything. Like he wasn't a disaster with an unfortunate talent for saying the wrong thing and an inability to say, 'I think you’re cute. Wanna grabcoffee.'

She was talking to him like someone worth knowing—even if she didn’t know how long he’d been quietly orbiting her chaos. Even if she never found out about the copier incident or how he’d once watched her scold a printer like it had personally insulted her grandmother.

And then, he’d thought he’d accidentally ruined everything on Monday.

Rhys still wasn’t sure how he’d wrecked the elevator moment. One second he’d been flirting—badly, but sincerely—and the next he was spiraling into some overcorrected monologue about “not real fun,” like he was trying to lose points in a social interaction speedrun.

It had come out all wrong. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like Friday didn’t matter. It had. A lot. Enough that his voice cracked on the apology. Which never helped. Ever. His brain, in true Rhys fashion, had panicked and chosen death via casual foot-in-mouth instead of letting the moment breathe.

And then she’d said “brunch.”

Brunch.

Like it was a weapon.

He’d agreed, obviously. Who wouldn’t? But she’d bolted out of that elevator like it was on fire and he was the arsonist. All week, he’d convinced himself it wasn’t real. A pity invite. A social obligation. A booby-trapped brunch designed to emotionally assassinate him with croissants.

Except then Friday happened. Another elevator ride at the same time. And she smiled at him. Said: See you tomorrow. Maybe she hadn’t meant it. But she’d said it. That was enough. Enough to show up, anyway.

Rhys stared at the to-go bag on the passenger seat like it might coach him through this next part. The dog was in the back, licking whipped cream out of a cup with the focus of someone performing sacred rites.

“Don’t get cocky,” Rhys muttered, checking his hair in the rearview mirror. “You’re only here because you’re better at flirting than I am.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot burped softly.

It felt pointed.

Rhys sighed, leaned back against the headrest, and tried not to overthink it—which,naturally, meant he overthoughteverything.

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