Chapter Seven Brunch Prep and Canine Negotiations
Rhys
SIR STUMPS-A-LOT HAD earned a cheeseburger, a bacon treat, and a whole damn pup cup.
The dog had dragged him towards Linda like a fairy goddog on a mission last Friday. Sat on her foot and performed a miracle: Linda had spoken to him. Voluntarily. No glaring. No veiled threats involving alarm clocks. Actual words. Sentences, even. With syllables and everything. Like he wasn't a disaster with an unfortunate talent for saying the wrong thing and an inability to say, 'I think you’re cute. Wanna grab coffee.'
She was talking to him like someone worth knowing—even if she didn’t know how long he’d been quietly orbiting her chaos. Even if she never found out about the copier incident or how he’d once watched her scold a printer like it had personally insulted her grandmother.
And then, he’d thought he’d accidentally ruined everything on Monday.
Rhys still wasn’t sure how he’d wrecked the elevator moment. One second he’d been flirting—badly, but sincerely—and the next he was spiraling into some overcorrected monologue about “not real fun,” like he was trying to lose points in a social interaction speedrun.
It had come out all wrong. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like Friday didn’t matter. It had. A lot. Enough that his voice cracked on the apology. Which never helped. Ever. His brain, in true Rhys fashion, had panicked and chosen death via casual foot-in-mouth instead of letting the moment breathe.
And then she’d said “brunch.”
Brunch.
Like it was a weapon.
He’d agreed, obviously. Who wouldn’t? But she’d bolted out of that elevator like it was on fire and he was the arsonist. All week, he’d convinced himself it wasn’t real. A pity invite. A social obligation. A booby-trapped brunch designed to emotionally assassinate him with croissants .
Except then Friday happened. Another elevator ride at the same time. And she smiled at him. Said: See you tomorrow. Maybe she hadn’t meant it. But she’d said it. That was enough. Enough to show up, anyway.
Rhys stared at the to-go bag on the passenger seat like it might coach him through this next part. The dog was in the back, licking whipped cream out of a cup with the focus of someone performing sacred rites.
“Don’t get cocky,” Rhys muttered, checking his hair in the rearview mirror. “You’re only here because you’re better at flirting than I am.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot burped softly.
It felt pointed.
Rhys sighed, leaned back against the headrest, and tried not to overthink it—which, naturally , meant he overthought everything .
God, she was magnetic. Loud in a way that made silence feel dishonest. Messy in the way people were when they were real. And funny—dangerously funny.
He just had to hold it together long enough to get through brunch. Put his words into the right order. Ask her, like a normal person, if she wanted to grab coffee sometime. Try not to ask her if she wanted to date, move in and marry him in the same moment.
Maybe .
If she didn’t run away mid-pancake.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed, then stared at him through the rearview with mild judgment.
Rhys rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. Just talk to her.”
He put the car in gear.
The corgi licked bacon grease off his nose like he’d already written the vows.