Page 52 of Revenge Brunch and Other Disasters
His expression said:
I have been through war.
I have eaten diamonds.
I have performed ring duty under Whitesnake.
And now this?
Linda smiled sweetly. “She thinks he’s a horse.”
“Technically,” Rhys said, rubbing the spot on his leg where yesterday’s LEGO ambush had nearly ended him, “he's just short enough to qualify.”
Rosie shrieked something unintelligible, hurled a Cheerio skyward with the power of ancient deities, and yelled, “YEE-HAW!”
It hit Rhys in the eye.
He didn’t flinch.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot finally sighed. Deeply. Like a man who had seen the rise and fall of empires. Then he lay down. Rosie toppled off his back like a giggling sack of flour and landed in a heap of plush ducks and rebellion.
Linda reached over and closed the wedding album. Rested her head against Rhys’s shoulder.
“Remember when we were fake engaged?” she murmured.
He kissed her hair. “Barely. Now I’m fake married. With a real mortgage. And a corgi war vet.”
Linda smiled. “And a tiny dictator with a snack-based weapon system.”
Rhys clinked his mug softly against hers. “You’re the best terrible plan I’ve ever made.”
Sir Stumps-a-Lot, now fully flattened across the rug, gave a low grunt.
Rosie threw another Cheerio. It missed everyone.
And somewhere, beneath the quiet and the crumbs, the dog who had seen it all—The Witness to Kisses, the Therapist of Fools, the Bringer of Rings, the Devourer of Emotionally Significant Jewelry—closed his eyes.
Job done.
For now.
