Chapter Nineteen Social Goat Theft
Linda
IT STARTED—INNOCENTLY enough—with a ring pop.
Cherry. Obviously.
Because Rhys, menace that he was, had handed it to her in the middle of Trader Joe’s, right between the off-brand mochi freezer and a bin of “emotionally adventurous” trail mix, and said, dead serious:
“I think it’s time we took this to the next level.”
She stared at the plastic red jewel like it had personally insulted her tax bracket. “Please tell me this is a sugar-fueled joke. ”
Rhys raised an eyebrow and peeled the wrapper with courtship-level ceremony. “My mother just invited us to her anniversary party. There will be family. Photos. Probably speeches. If I show up without you, she’ll assume you dumped me and try to reintroduce me to Micah.”
“ Your mom knows Micah?! ”
“She sends him soup recipes.”
Linda looked skyward like she might spontaneously ascend just to escape this cursed storyline. “I hate this timeline.”
Rhys slid the ring pop onto her finger with infuriating care. “Too late. You’re engaged now. Congratulations, future Mrs. Beard.”
“I will poison your soup and kidnap your air fryer.”
“Joke’s on you. I don’t use the air fryer. Stumps does.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot sneezed once from the cart, as if to confirm.
Two days later
Linda was sweating through a dress she couldn’t afford, drinking cucumber-infused sparkling water while standing under a string of tasteful fairy lights that somehow felt aggressively judgmental.
She was also making polite conversation and being called Laureen by someone’s aunt for the fourth time .
Rhys, traitorous Adonis that he was , looked like Greek tragedy and a Pinterest husband had a baby. He was all rolled sleeves and subtle cologne and confident smiles—the kind that made people say things like “he’s a good one, keep him.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot was wearing a tiny tuxedo with tiny lapels and a bowtie that cost more than Linda’s shoes.
Everyone wanted to see the ring.
Linda, mid-sip, blinked. She held the glass in place a second longer than normal. “Oh. The ring. Right.”
She held up her hand like a magician trying to misdirect. “It’s being resized. My fingers swell when I’m stressed. Or when I think about soup. Or Micah.”
Rhys coughed violently into his drink. Linda glared at him while pretending not to.
His cousin leaned in, glass of rosé in hand. “I give it six months.”
Linda blinked. “’Til what?”
“’Til the wedding. You two have that vibe.”
“What vibe?”
“The ‘we bicker while painting the nursery and then make out on the drop cloth’ vibe.”
Linda slowly turned her head toward Rhys, who was deeply engaged in a conversation about sustainable goat milk cheese. His eyes flicked toward her, and he winked .
She narrowed her eyes. “ You planned this. ”
Rhys tilted his head. “Who, me?”
Later That Evening
After Rhys’s mom offered Linda heirloom earrings, after the family slideshow mysteriously included a Photoshopped engagement photo of the two of them in a field of wildflowers (which neither of them had ever visited), and after three separate people asked for the wedding date, after Sir Stumps-a-Lot was mistaken for the ring bearer…
Linda found herself on the patio, wine glass in hand, questioning every decision she’d ever made. Alone.
The patio lights twinkled. Her wine was too warm. Her dignity was teetering on the edge of a sandal heel.
Rhys found her leaning against the porch railing, sipping with the energy of a woman preparing to fake her own death.
“Your family is terrifying,” she said, eyes still on the dark lawn. “Did you know your grandmother offered me a goat?”
Rhys leaned on the railing beside her. “She likes you.”
“I gathered. Now I either marry you or commit social goat theft. ”
“She said it was a dairy goat. You’d be set for cottagecore if things go south. ”
Linda groaned into her wine. “This is getting out of hand.”
“You’re doing great.”
She gave him a long look. “You’re so smug.”
He didn’t smirk, not this time. He just looked at her. Calm. Soft. Like she was something worth studying.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re annoyed.”
Linda’s heart skipped. Actually skipped. Like a kid on a playground. She snorted, nervously. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say things like that. It makes this feel…”
“Real?” His voice was quiet now. Private.
Linda stared at him. Her fingers tightened around the glass stem.
“Dangerous,” she said.
There was a beat. The party sounds drifted behind them. Sir Stumps-a-Lot snored audibly from his little cushion on the patio swing, completely unbothered by the emotional minefield happening nearby.
Then—Rhys stepped forward.
Just a little. Just enough.
His hands stayed in his pockets. He didn’t touch her. But the air between them shifted. Close now. Too close to be just fake.
“You want to keep pretending?” he asked, low.
Linda nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.
Rhys smiled. But it wasn’t smug. It wasn’t cocky.
It was tender.
“Good,” he whispered.
And then he kissed her.
Slow. Certain. Like he wasn’t asking for permission. Like the world had already agreed with him.
Linda froze—then melted. Into the kiss, into him, into the way his hand finally cupped her cheek like he’d been waiting to do it forever.
Her fingers tangled in his shirt before she could stop them. She curled into him like her heart had finally stopped panicking long enough to say yes.
And god damn him.
God damn him for kissing her like she was perfection in his arms.
Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fake. Not anymore.
When they broke apart, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak .
Rhys touched his forehead to hers.
“We should get back inside,” he said, voice rough.
Linda nodded.
But she knew.
She was in so much trouble. Because she didn’t want to stop pretending.
She wanted it to be real. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.