Page 4 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

“SHIT,” she groaned, flinging her phone off the charger. It was 7:42. They were supposed to meet at 7:30.

Sara answered her call on the first ring.

“If you’re dead, I’m revoking your eyeliner privileges.”

“I took a nap. The clock didn’t go off. We have to kill it. I’m serious this time.”

Sara sighed. “Linda. Is it haunted? You’re legally obligated to tell me if it’s haunted.”

“Not haunted. Just evil.”

“You’re in a toxic relationship with an inanimate object.”

Linda shoved her feet into boots while brushing her hair with her fingers and trying to zip her jacket without strangling herself. “Don’t clock-shame me right now. I’m suffering.”

“Where are you?”

“Power walking to the metro. Trying to make up time with raw frustration.”

She passed the corner of the park—usually an unremarkable patch of grass and joggers, but tonight? Absolutely not. Tonight the universe decided to slap her with temptation and thigh definition.

There, under a string of golden light and soft dusk? Rhys. In a dark gray T-shirt that clung to his torso like betrayal. He was laughing. Throwing a Frisbee.

With the corgi.

Who bounded after it with the pure, unfiltered joy of a small dog with a mission and short legs.

Linda stumbled. Actually tripped. Caught herself on a lamp post and tried to play it cool by adjusting her scarf likeyes, of course I always stagger dramatically in public like a Jane Austen extra.

Also, WHY is he always stunning when I look like I wrestled my laundry pile and lost?

Sara’s voice crackled in her ear. “Why did you go silent? Are you being murdered by night pigeons?”

“I just—” Linda blinked again. “Rhys is playing Frisbee in the park. With the corgi.”

Pause.

“…shirtless?”

“No. Worse. Fitted tee. Muscles. Sunlight. Laughter. He looks like a hydration ad. He’s an accountant. The heaviest thing he lifts should be a pencil. This is emotional fraud.”

Sara cackled. “Do you want me to loop back and pick you up in the chaos wagon?”

“No. I deserve this. This is penance. This is my hot idiot tax.” Why did it matter what he looked like? She wasn’ttwelve. Or starring in a YA Netflix adaptation. Or—God help her—hoping he’d ask her about her day.

She kept walking—very intentionallynot looking back—while every cell in her body screamed LOOK BACK.

She didn’t.

But she felt it.

His gaze.

He’d seen her.

Of course he had.

Chapter Three: Crying in Succulents

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