Chapter Five The Corgi Gambit
Linda
FRIDAY ARRIVED FASTER than Linda expected, which was rude, honestly. She wasn’t ready.
She’d spent the whole day internally rehearsing how to be cool, aloof, unbothered. She had three canned responses ready in case anyone brought up The Interview Incident—now officially capitalized in her brain—and at least two snappy comebacks locked and loaded for Mr. Arrogant. It would be at least six months before she’d get the chance to interview again, and she wanted to punch him in his perfect face or maybe kiss him. Probably both.
And yet .
The moment she walked into the office party, holding a plate of suspiciously sweaty cheese cubes and wearing her “I’m effortlessly fun and professional” top (which had betrayed her with an unexpected side wrinkle), she saw him.
Tall. Confident. Wearing a navy button-down that probably cost more than her rent, somehow highlighted both his jawline and moral ambiguity, and had no right making him look that good.
She immediately forgot how to breathe and also possibly her own name.
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.
She pasted on her most professional smile (which felt more like baring teeth). “Whether I hate you or not,” she said sweetly. “Depends. Is your corgi going to tackle me this time or just judge me from afar?”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed again. This time it sounded like he meant it.
Rhys grinned. “I’d say he’s open to negotiations. He responds well to cheese.”
Linda blinked. Then slowly lowered a single cube toward the corgi .
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sniffed it... then delicately took it from her palm.
“See?” Rhys said, sounding far too pleased. “You’re already winning him over.”
Linda narrowed her eyes. “This is a long con, isn’t it? First the alarm clock. Now this weirdly charming dog.”
Rhys tilted his head, amused. “What alarm clock?”
She huffed. “ Exactly. ”
Sara reappeared with two mini quiches and the look of someone who lives for chaos but supports her friends.
“Well, I’ve got to mingle,” she said innocently. “You two behave—or don’t.”
And just like that, Linda was left alone. With the man. And the corgi.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sat on her foot.
She stared down at him.
“Don’t bite. Or pee,” she whispered.
Rhys laughed. “He does that when he likes someone.”
Linda crossed her arms. “I don’t trust him.”
“Because he’s winning?”
“Because he’s short and powerful. That’s never a good combination. ”
Rhys leaned in slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You realize that applies to you, too.”
Linda blinked. She shouldn’t like this. She absolutely, one hundred percent should not be noticing how good he smelled or how easy his smile was or how the dog had strategically weaponized cuteness to break down her defenses.
But here she was. Holding a plate of sweaty cheese cubes. On the edge of betrayal.
Well.
Damn.
“Dance?”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot barked once. Possibly in agreement.
Linda sighed dramatically. “Fine. One dance. But if the dog cuts in, I’m gone.”
“Deal,” Rhys said, offering his arm like they were in a regency drama and not standing under a string of discount party lights next to a lukewarm spinach dip.
She took it—reluctantly—but not before giving Sir Stumps a warning glance.
“Try anything,” she whispered to the dog, “and I swear I’ll replace your bowtie with one of those cones of shame and a passive-aggressive Post-it.”
Rhys chuckled as they moved to the “dance floor,” which was really just the tile between two folding tables .
“This is nice,” he said.
“This is tragic,” she corrected. “That’s a disco ball made out of spoon mirrors.”
“But you’re still here.”
“For the dog.”
“Obviously.”
He spun her—badly. It was more of an awkward pivot than a twirl, and Linda bumped into the folding table full of off-brand soda.
“Smooth,” she muttered.
“I’m trying not to step on you.”
“Try harder. I’m compact and emotionally fragile. And my dignity’s on thin ice since Tuesday.”
“The Interview Incident?”
She groaned. “Of course you know. You were involved.”
“And I’ve heard. But only from seven people.”
“I hate you with the heat of a thousand suns.”
“Shakespeare?” He laughed again, low and surprised, like she’d caught him off-guard. Like he liked that she kept catching him off-guard.
Linda thought maybe—not definitely, not permanently, but maybe —this week was going to end better than it began.
Even if she was dancing with the enemy .
The music faded into something slower. Just enough to make Linda twitch.
She stepped back. “One dance. We had a deal.”
“You said if the dog cut in.”
“He’s thinking about it.”
They both glanced down.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot rolled onto his back with a sigh, completely done.
Linda shook her head. “Traitor.”
“To be fair,” Rhys said, “I think he wants a dog... aunt.” He winced at the end, and Linda looked down to see Sir Stumps-a-Lot had leaned his whole weight on a paw on Rhys’s foot.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot gave a contented grunt.
Linda narrowed her eyes. “He’s plotting something.”
Rhys smirked. “Probably.”
The corgi blinked once. Slowly. Like a general surveying a battlefield.
Friday night: conquered.