Page 25 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters

Linda wasn’t “spending too much time with him,” okay? It was just Saturday brunch.

And sometimes those brunches went long. Like, till 8 p.m. long. But 8 p.m. is still early! Practically brunch-adjacent!

And sure, there were the Thursday dinners.

And the new Friday movie nights, which had only been a thing for, like, six Fridays. Barely a trend.

Sunday? Never. Absolutely not.

Until this Sunday. The picnic. With Sara and her latest human-shaped dating experiment. Jerome? George? Gregory?

Oh my God. What if I forget his name in front of Sara and Rhys? Nobody would want to date—fake date—a woman who can’t remember her best friend’s date’s name!

Linda paused dramatically in her frantic organizing of snacks in Tupperware like it was a military operation and thesuccess of staving off World War III would be decided by if the apple slices were artistically arranged or not.

“What’s his name again?” Linda asked, already rearranging crackers like they held the secret to not screwing this up. Sara was propped against the counter, favorite coffee mug filled with wine in hand.

“I can’t believe you forgotmy date’sname.” Sara’s eyebrows rose so high on her head they were in danger of hovering above her hair.

“So…you forgot too?”

“Jake. Or Jonathan? One of those two. I’m almost sure of it. Doesn’t matter. I only said yes to Matt? Mike? Whomever so I could have an excuse to invite you two. You’re such a cute couple.”

“We are not a couple! You know that. In fact, you’re the only one who knows.” Linda practically growled at her best friend. Slammed a lid on a Tupperware container and viciously shoved it into the ice chest.

“You made homemade lemon bars, you denial-based hobgoblin.” Sara smirked at her, as she took a long sip of the mug-wine.

“I made something aggressively citrusy. Lemon is not romantic. Lemon is the least romantic citrus there is! It’s…it’s a dietary challenge!”

“Right. Of course. Aggressive dessert challenge. That tracks.” Sara picked up a few kitchen hand towels and folded them. “You also bought his favorite olives.”

A lid clattered down on the counter, sandwich meat slid sideways on the tray. Linda spun around, “You can’t fake date someone for four months and not know their briny preferences. It’s etiquette.You know this.”

“You should just admit it, so you can deal and we can make a plan to extract you from this beard situation.You are literally in love with him.”

Linda paused, pointing a butter knife like a holy relic. “No. I’m being supportive. Of his… very real… secret gay crisis.”

Sara raised a brow. “Right. And I suppose the matching playlists, the slow-dancing in his kitchen last Friday, and the way he looked at you like you were a Hallmark card that smelled like pancakes are all part of the decoy plan?”

“We’re done talking about this. Okay? Just help me get this all ready.”

The next morning, Linda stared at her reflection and tried to decide if it was possible to look “romantically unavailable but emotionally competent” in linen shorts.

The answer was no.

Rhys was picking her up.

Because, apparently, they were that kind of fake couple now. The “I’ll drive” kind.

Her doorbell sounded. She clutched the lemon bars and braced.

Rhys looked—like always—amazing and criminally relaxed. Button-down. Rolled sleeves. Sunglasses that made him look like a rom-com budget Chris Evans. He even had iced coffees. He handed her a cup. “Iced caramel mocha latte, for the perfect fake-girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this a test? We have to be convincing in front of Sara’s date. Remember, we’re in love and disgustingly stable. And you know, I get a macchiato, not a mocha latte.” She glared at the offering he was holding out and missed the flash of disappointment in his eyes.

When she looked back at him, Rhys grinned at her. “If you think I’m going to give you a drink with espresso and then take you to a park with a river running by it, you are out of your mind. I’m not fishing you out again.”

“Fair point.” She grimaced and grabbed the cup. “Where’s Sir Stumps-a-lot?”

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