Page 44 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

Her knees actually wobbled.Wobbled. Like she was in a melodramatic 90s soap opera.

Another step. Another breath. Another heartbeat she couldn’t control.

“But, Linda,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “I’ve never faked the way I feel about you.”

He reached for her hand—not fast, not greedy—just… offered. Like she could take it or leave it and still be safe.

She took it.

And his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist like a secret.

“I love you,” Rhys said, low and rough and real.

Her breath caught. And then her lips were on his.

This wasn’t a mistake.

It was a surrender.

Linda kissed him like he was air she’d been denying herself for months—soft at first, like testing a bruise, then deeper, more desperate, like she was chasing the exact second she’d stopped pretending.

Rhys didn’t hesitate. He kissed her like she was a storm he wanted to be struck by.

One hand in her hair. The other pressing to the small of her back. Slow. Focused. Like he was memorizing her.

Like he knew he had to stop before he forgot how.

When he finally pulled back—just barely, just enough to breathe—his forehead pressed to hers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Was that… still fake?”

She couldn’t think.

She couldn’tbreathe.

But she managed: “I think I’ve wanted it to be real since the alarm clock caused The Collision.”

Sir Stumps barked from the hallway likefinally.

Linda didn’t even look away.

“Next time,” she said, “don’t stop so fast.”

Rhys smiled against her lips. “Noted.”

Chapter Twenty-Three: TheOne Where He Tells Her

Rhys

LINDA WAS ASLEEP on the couch, cocooned in the blanket she’d fought with an hour ago and eventually made peace with. It was bunched under one arm and half-draped over her legs like it had lost the war but won a truce. Her hair was a glorious disaster. One sock—banana-print—had somehow ended up on the coffee table. And her mouth was open just enough to snore like a small, judgmental woodland creature.

Rhys watched her like a man who didn’t quite believe any of this was real.

He should have gone to bed. Or finished writing the place cards. Or returned his mom’s seventh voicemail (which had featured the phrase“signature cocktail options”and the alarming implication that she’d already booked a jazz trio).

Instead, he sat beside her with a glass of water in one hand and a heart stuffed full of unsent confessions.

The living room was quiet. Golden. Safe. The kind of quiet that dared you to speak the truth aloud just to hear what it sounded like.

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