Page 48 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

Rhys laughed softly. “Don’t worry. If he passes the ring, I’ll propose again. Right there. Probably with gloves on.”

“You’re a menace,” she muttered.

“I love you too.”

And somewhere, deep in his corgi soul, Sir Stumps-a-Lot smirked.

Because in the end, he was still the ring bearer.

Just… internally.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Tulip Trap

Linda

WEDDING DAY

LINDA stood in the bridal suite, halfway into her dress, panic in her eyes and hairspray in her mouth.

“This is a mistake,” she said.

She paced three steps, stopped, and paced them again—every pass trailing tulle and doom.

“I can’t do this. My eyeliner’s uneven. One wing is auditioning for Broadway and the other is dying in a gutter. I look like I tried to contour with regret.”

Sara didn’t even flinch. She lounged on the corner chaise like a noir detective sipping mimosa. “You said you wanted ‘controlled chaos chic.’ That reads.”

Linda pointed wildly at the bouquet. “Why did I pick tulips? They’re just… smug. They know they’re pretty. They’re the people who say ‘I don’t even wear makeup’ and still look editorial. They're theRhysof flowers.”

Sara sipped. “Okay.”

“Effortless. Polished. Judging me from a vase.”

“You said they were ‘approachable elegance’ two weeks ago.”

“I was lying to myself. Tulips are a trap.” She gestured at the mirror with trembling hands. “They’retoospringy. Like they’re trying too hard to say ‘this is fresh love’ and not ‘this relationship started as an elaborate tax fraud-level fake-out.’”

Sara tilted her glass. “Okay, but they match the bowtie on the dog.”

Linda visibly tried not to sob harder. “Damn it.Stumpspulls it off. I look like a Pinterest board got drunk and started doubting its life choices.”

She turned back to the mirror, pressing her palms to the edge of the vanity.

“Maybe I’m not a wedding person,” she whispered. “Maybe I’m a long-term brunch person. A cohabitating inmatching hoodies person. Maybe I peaked emotionally at the ring pop and this—” she waved at her veil like it had personally betrayed her “—is too much.”

Sara, in full maid-of-honor regalia—black jumpsuit, combat boots, hair like a goddess of vengeance—leaned against the wall with unshakable calm.

“You done?”

Linda blinked at her in the mirror.

“First of all,” Sara said, setting down her mimosa like she was preparing to spiritually tackle her friend into sanity, “do you love Rhys?”

Linda made a sound. A panicked squeak that could’ve been ‘yes’ or ‘help’ or ‘microwave.’

Sara raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a no.”

“I do,” Linda whispered. “But what if I’m just… a walking anxiety spiral with lipstick and unprocessed emotional baggage? What if he wakes up one day and realizes he deserves someone who doesn’t panic about flowers or yell at dishwashers?”

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