And at his feet?

The corgi. Wearing a bowtie, this time.

Linda stared.

The corgi stared back.

It sneezed.

“Well,” she muttered to herself. “That’s clearly a threat.”

For a wild, unhinged second, she considered hiding under the cheese table. She could survive off crackers for hours. Possibly reinvent herself as Party Goblin, Queen of Avoidance.

“Nope,” she whispered to the cubes on her plate. “Not today.”

Before she could bolt for the sanctuary of the mini brownies, Sara popped up beside her like a well-timed sprite of chaos.

“There you are!” Sara grinned, eyes glinting. “I see you’ve met Sir Stumps-a-Lot.”

Linda blinked. “What?”

“The corgi. That’s his name.”

“That’s not a name. That’s a diplomatic title.”

“Exactly.”

Linda stared. “He has diplomatic immunity?”

“Don’t start an international incident, Linda. He’s very important. I also asked if he bites. Rhys said, quote, ‘Only the deserving.’ So, be warned.”

Linda’s mouth twitched. “So he’s got taste.”

“And possibly too much loyalty to his owner,” Sara said cheerfully. “But hey, silver lining—Mr. Arrogant’s headed this way.”

Linda turned on her heel, ready to make a swift exit—only to be blocked by a man balancing a precarious tower of shrimp skewers and a woman monologuing about kombucha near the water cooler.

She spun again. Another wall of coworkers.

She was boxed in. Ambushed. The party had become a trap.

And now Rhys was approaching with that calm, unbothered, probably moisturized expression she hated so much.

“NOPE.” Linda pivoted to leave. The cheese cubes tried to escape her plate. She held on valiantly.

Too late.

“Linda, right?”

She turned.

“Fancy seeing you here. Not running late today?” He winced. “That came out... meaner than it sounded in my head.”

“You get many practice runs in that head of yours?”

“Only when I’m prepping for small talk with women who hate me. Honestly? I practiced this exact conversation. Twice. In my car.”

Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed again, as if to fill the silence.