Chapter Eight Operation Out-Charm the Arrogant Bastard
Linda
LINDA WAS NOT nervous.
She was prepared .
This was not a date—it was a tactical counteroffensive. After letting Rhys charm her (against her better judgment and also with the assistance of a corgi) on Friday, then Monday in the elevator basically stated he would never date her ever , Linda had offered up the “casual brunch” with all the panic of a woman plotting revenge in heels and lip gloss .
Because if he thought he could be suave and self-assured and irritatingly handsome and win points by simply owning a short king of a dog with big eyes and trust issues?
He had another think coming.
She would outwit him. Out-charm him. Be so dazzlingly cool and competent and irresistible that he’d walk away dazed and regretful, like every rom-com ex who realizes Too Late that he let a queen slip through his fingers.
She had even rehearsed lines in the mirror.
She’d gone full war paint—winged eyeliner, lip gloss named “Regret Is Dead,” and earrings that could maim a man if thrown.
This was not brunch.
This was battle brunch.
Until Sir Stumps-a-Lot greeted her at the café with an entire pancake in his mouth.
“He gets anxious if he can’t pre-snack,” Rhys explained, looking completely unbothered in a button-up shirt and lazy Saturday stubble. “Also, I said you’d probably be ten minutes late. He likes to be emotionally prepared.”
Linda raised an eyebrow. “I was three minutes late.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot dropped the pancake on her shoe like a soggy offering.
“Well,” she said brightly. “It’s good to be seen. ”
They sat down. Linda ordered the most intimidatingly fancy latte on the menu (rose cardamom, oat milk, extra foam) and a spinach mushroom frittata that said I brunch like a grown-up .
Rhys? Black coffee. Pancakes. Bacon. No hesitation.
Rude.
"I like your stubble," she said, launching the Charm Offensive like a woman on a mission.
Rhys leaned back in his chair, hand casually brushing his jaw. “Thanks.” He smirked at her, then added—almost shyly, which was frankly suspicious behavior for Mr. Arrogant—“I’ve been thinking I need a beard.”
She blinked.
Then snorted.
Her first celebrity crush? Came out in a magazine spread titled "Gay, Glamorous, and Giving No Apologies." (Which, honestly? Iconic.)
Her high school almost-boyfriend? Had kissed her once behind the gym, panicked, and then thanked her in his coming-out post senior year. (They're still mutuals. He has an Etsy shop and a fiancé named Marco. It’s very healing.)
And her boyfriend before last? Six months of deep eye contact and zero physical affection before he dumped her and came out at a mutual friend’s baby shower .
So when Rhys said “I’ve been thinking I need a beard,” her brain did not interpret it as playful flirtation. It logged it, stamped it with a rainbow, and filed it under: You are the emotional support decoy once again, babe.
She laughed. Of course she did. Laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth with her napkin. “Why not? I’m in. I’ll be your beard.” Because of course. He was perfect and handsome, too arrogant to be real. Of course.
In her defense, gaydar was a complicated science, and Rhys gave off at least three distinct flavors: emotionally mature, suspiciously stylish, and way too good with dogs.
Rhys paused and his smile faltered for a split second—like maybe that wasn’t what he meant—but he said nothing.
And she didn’t ask.
Because it was easier to make a joke than risk hearing something real.
For one heartbeat, she thought he might say something else. Something real. But then his mouth twitched back into a smile, and the moment passed like it owed rent.
Then he smiled—soft, crooked, a little too quiet for the moment.
“If that’s what it takes,” he said. “So,” he said, elbows on the table like this wasn’t a battlefield. “What’s your deal?”
Linda blinked. “My deal? ”
“Yeah. I mean, clearly you’re funny, highly suspicious of small electronics, and talk to dogs like they’re co-workers.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed in support.
Linda smirked. “I’ll have you know, the alarm clock started it. And I’ll talk to whoever I want, thank you. Unlike some people, I don’t need to win arguments with sheer jawline.”
Rhys’s mouth twitched. “You think I have a winning jawline?”
“I think it’s been weaponized.”
“Noted. And terrifying.”
Linda sipped her latte and gave her best devastating smile. “Good. Fear’s the foundation of respect.”
Rhys leaned forward. “I don’t know. I think you like me.”
“Excuse you?”
“It’s the way you look at me. Like you want to throw something. That’s affection in your language, isn’t it?”
She pointed her fork at him. “You don’t know my language.”
“I’ve seen you threaten your toaster with a butter knife on Instagram.”
“That toaster knows what it did.”
Their food arrived. Sir Stumps-a-Lot immediately resumed his post at her feet like a fuzzy, judgmental sentry. Linda tried to focus on her revenge. Be charming. Be radiant. Make him sweat.
But instead of dazzling him with devastating quips, she found herself laughing at his stupid commentary about toast psychology, accidentally telling him about the time she once ironed a shirt while still wearing it (spoiler: bad idea), and learning more than she meant to about how he got stuck dogsitting for his sister and sort of never gave the dog back.
“I’m keeping him hostage,” he admitted. “But in a very nurturing way.”
“Stumps doesn’t look like he minds.”
“He bites everyone else. It's how he expresses boundaries.”
Linda blinked. “Even your sister?”
“Especially my sister.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot, sensing his cue, burped softly under the table.
The bill came. Rhys reached for it. Linda slapped his hand with her spoon.
“Excuse me,” she said. “This is my revenge date. You do not get to pay for the privilege.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Your revenge date?”
She froze.
He grinned .
Linda cleared her throat. “Hypothetically.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, that grin turning criminal, as he leaned in just enough to make her heartbeat file a complaint. “If this is revenge… please, do your worst.”
Linda dropped her spoon.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot barked.
Somewhere in the distance, the alarm clock she had thrown away short-circuited in fear.