Page 15 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

She blinked.

Then snorted.

Her first celebrity crush? Came out in a magazine spread titled "Gay, Glamorous, and Giving No Apologies." (Which, honestly? Iconic.)

Her high school almost-boyfriend? Had kissed her once behind the gym, panicked, and then thanked her in his coming-out post senior year. (They're still mutuals. He has an Etsy shop and a fiancé named Marco. It’s very healing.)

And her boyfriend before last? Six months of deep eye contact and zero physical affection before he dumped her and came out at a mutual friend’s baby shower.

So when Rhys said “I’ve been thinking I need a beard,” her brain did not interpret it as playful flirtation. It logged it, stamped it with a rainbow, and filed it under:You are the emotional support decoy once again, babe.

She laughed. Of course she did. Laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth with her napkin. “Why not? I’m in. I’ll be your beard.” Becauseof course.He was perfect and handsome, too arrogant to be real. Ofcourse.

In her defense, gaydar was a complicated science, and Rhys gave off at least three distinct flavors: emotionally mature, suspiciously stylish, and way too good with dogs.

Rhys paused and his smile faltered for a split second—like maybe that wasn’t what he meant—but he said nothing.

And she didn’t ask.

Because it was easier to make a joke than risk hearing something real.

For one heartbeat, she thought he might say something else. Something real. But then his mouth twitched back into a smile, and the moment passed like it owed rent.

Then he smiled—soft, crooked, a little too quiet for the moment.

“If that’s what it takes,” he said. “So,” he said, elbows on the table like this wasn’t a battlefield. “What’s your deal?”

Linda blinked. “My deal?”

“Yeah. I mean, clearly you’re funny, highly suspicious of small electronics, and talk to dogs like they’re co-workers.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed in support.

Linda smirked. “I’ll have you know, the alarm clockstarted it.And I’ll talk to whoever I want, thank you. Unlike some people, I don’t need to win arguments with sheer jawline.”

Rhys’s mouth twitched. “You think I have a winning jawline?”

“I think it’s been weaponized.”

“Noted. And terrifying.”

Linda sipped her latte and gave her best devastating smile. “Good. Fear’s the foundation of respect.”

Rhys leaned forward. “I don’t know. I think youlikeme.”

“Excuse you?”

“It’s the way you look at me. Like you want to throw something. That’s affection in your language, isn’t it?”

She pointed her fork at him. “You don’t know my language.”

“I’ve seen you threaten your toaster with a butter knife on Instagram.”

“That toaster knows what it did.”

Their food arrived. Sir Stumps-a-Lot immediately resumed his post at her feet like a fuzzy, judgmental sentry.Linda tried to focus on her revenge. Be charming. Be radiant. Make himsweat.

But instead of dazzling him with devastating quips, she found herself laughing at his stupid commentary about toast psychology, accidentally telling him about the time she once ironed a shirt while still wearing it (spoiler: bad idea), and learning more than she meant to about how he got stuck dogsitting for his sister and sort of never gave the dog back.

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