Chapter Sixteen Enter the Barista
Linda
IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a coffee run.
That’s it. A normal, non-chaotic, non-beard-related outing. Linda wanted caffeine and one blessed morning without drama. But the universe had other plans.
Because the moment she stepped into Brews Before Dudes , a local indie coffee shop with chalkboard walls and too many succulents, she heard it: “Rhys?”
The voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like someone who moisturized unironically and probably used beard oil that smelled like existential longing.
Linda turned .
He was tall. Tattooed. Apron-wearing. And hot in that “reads poetry to his cat” kind of way.
“Micah,” Rhys said, expression unreadable.
Linda blinked. Micah?! That was the gayest name she’d ever heard. No offense to Micahs, but come on . You didn’t name someone Micah unless you expected them to learn latte art and ruin someone’s summer.
Micah looked Linda over with laser-like precision and raised an eyebrow with the kind of dramatic flourish that came from too many community theater credits.
“So you’re Linda,” Micah said slowly, lips curving. “Don’t screw it up.” He flicked a glance at Rhys.
Linda’s soul left her body. “Hi,” she said, very clearly Not Panicking?. “Yes. I am… definitely Linda.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sniffed at Micah once, sneezed in dramatic disapproval, and turned away like he couldn’t believe he was participating in this farce.
Micah crossed his arms. “You know, you’re not what I pictured.”
“Oh?”
“I thought you’d be taller. And French.” Micah’s theatrical delivery was suspiciously polished. Like he’d practiced. With notes .
Linda missed it entirely. She was too busy wondering if she should try to look “French-er”. What kind of women would Rhys like, if he liked woman?
Linda blinked. “Why?”
Micah shrugged. “You had that vibe. Like you’d smell like despair and lavender.”
“Thank you?”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot, parked dutifully at her feet, growled faintly. Linda wasn’t sure if it was on her behalf or just because Micah looked like the kind of man who wouldn’t share cheese.
Micah turned back to Rhys. “So, no hard feelings.”
Linda watched Rhys. He looked calm. Too calm.
“Micah,” he said. “We talked about this.”
“Did we?”
“We did. For three hours. Over soup.”
Micah scoffed. “Whatever. I’m just saying, she better be worth it.”
Then he turned and flounced off, which shouldn’t have been possible in non-slip shoes but somehow was.
Linda stood in stunned silence. Then slowly turned to Rhys, so she missed the wink Micah threw over his shoulder.
“Over soup?! ”
Rhys looked at her, deadpan. “It was lentil.”
“Oh my god.”
“He was really upset about the texture.”
“I cannot believe you have an actual backstory to tell your ex about our fake relationship.”
“Would you rather he thought you were just a rebound?”
“I’d rather he think I’m a hallucination! This is spiraling out of control.”
Rhys watched her try to recover, expression unreadable. But under the table, Sir Stumps-a-Lot gave him a conspiratorial sniff. Mission: Beard Chaos, phase one—complete.
Rhys tilted his head. “It could always spiral harder.”
Linda narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”
But Rhys was already ordering coffee like they weren’t standing in the ashes of a very confusing love triangle.
As they walked out—Linda still reeling, Sir Stumps-a-Lot proudly pooping on Micah’s herb garden—Rhys turned to her casually.
So,” he said. “Any strong feelings about pretending to be engaged at Thanksgiving?”
Linda almost dropped her coffee.