Page 51 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

A beat.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot, overcome with emotion or indigestion, spun once between them, stepped squarely on Linda’s train—and caused her to nearly trip straight into Rhys’s arms.

He caught her with a grin, a hand at her waist.

“Perfect timing.”

Sir Stumps barked once.

Then farted.

Uncle Rick cheered.

The DJ dropped his headset and walked into the sea.

And just like that—they were married.

Not flawlessly. Not serenely.

But honestly.

Wildly.

Perfectly.

Together.

Epilogue: The Corgi Who Knew Too Much

Sir Stumps-a-Lot

THREE YEARS LATER

In his twilight years (he was seven now—practically a wizard, practically immortal, practically owed a pension), he had faced dragons, chaos, Bluetooth speakers, and emotionally constipated humans.

But now?

Now he faced his greatest nemesis: toddler energy.

“Giddy-up, UNCLE STUMP!” shrieked Rosie, age two and three-quarters, chaos incarnate in pigtails, as she gallopedonto his broad, judgmental back like a conquering general in a Peppa Pig t-shirt.

Sir Stumps-a-Lot did not flinch.

He did not move.

He simply stared ahead, frozen in a position of noble resignation, like a saint, or a martyr. Or a Target employee in December.

Rhys walked in, coffee in hand, surveyed the scene like a man who had surrendered long ago, and gave a solemn nod to the dog.

“Your reign continues,” he said.

Linda snorted from the couch. She was wrapped in a robe, feet tucked under her, wedding album open on her lap. Her hair was a mess. Her heart was full. She looked like everything Sir Stumps had fought to protect.

“Should we… stop her?” she asked.

Rhys sipped his coffee. “She’s small. He’s indestructible. Let the gods sort it out.”

Sir Stumps turned to look at Linda. Slowly. Deliberately.

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