Page 34 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

“Good,” Darcy said. “Now call Micah.”

Rhys blinked. “You want me tohireMicah?”

“Not hire,” Liv said. “Activate.”

Darcy grinned, already thumbing through her contacts. “Let the barista chaos commence.”

Rhys sighed and stared into the middle distance like a man on the edge of battle. He didn’t know if he was the hero,the fool, or just collateral damage in a slow-burn war he’d accidentally declared on himself.

But he pulled out his phone anyway.

Because if losing Linda meant telling the truth, he’d rather lie a little longer.

Just until he figured out how to say,I love you.

Without ruining everything.

Chapter Sixteen: Enter the Barista

Linda

IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a coffee run.

That’s it. A normal, non-chaotic, non-beard-related outing. Linda wanted caffeine and one blessed morning without drama. But the universe had other plans.

Because the moment she stepped intoBrews Before Dudes, a local indie coffee shop with chalkboard walls and too many succulents, she heard it: “Rhys?”

The voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like someone who moisturized unironically and probably used beard oil that smelled like existential longing.

Linda turned.

He was tall. Tattooed. Apron-wearing. And hot in that “reads poetry to his cat” kind of way.

“Micah,” Rhys said, expression unreadable.

Linda blinked. Micah?! That was the gayest name she’d ever heard.No offense to Micahs, but come on. You didn’t name someone Micah unless you expected them to learn latte art and ruin someone’s summer.

Micah looked Linda over with laser-like precision and raised an eyebrow with the kind of dramatic flourish that came from too many community theater credits.

“So you’re Linda,” Micah said slowly, lips curving. “Don’t screw it up.” He flicked a glance at Rhys.

Linda’s soul left her body. “Hi,” she said, very clearly Not Panicking™. “Yes. I am… definitely Linda.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sniffed at Micah once, sneezed in dramatic disapproval, and turned away like he couldn’t believe he was participating in this farce.

Micah crossed his arms. “You know, you’re not what I pictured.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you’d be taller. And French.” Micah’s theatrical delivery was suspiciously polished. Like he’d practiced. With notes.

Linda missed it entirely. She was too busy wondering if she should try to look “French-er”. What kind of women would Rhys like, if he liked woman?

Linda blinked. “Why?”

Micah shrugged. “You had that vibe. Like you’d smell like despair and lavender.”

“Thank you?”

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