Page 120 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“I’ll drink to that.”
He grins. “Merry Christmas, mate. You know where I am if you need someone to listen or mock you relentlessly. Both services available at no charge.”
“I appreciate that.”
He claps my shoulder, then heads off down the path, disappearing into the cold.
I turn to go back inside, bottle in hand—
“Jasper?”
The voice is quiet. Hesitant. But I’d know it anywhere.
I freeze.
Then turn slowly toward the annexe, heart doing something uncomfortable in my chest.
She’s there. Leggings. Oversized hoodie. Hair slightly windswept. And on her feet—I swear I blink twice to make sure I’m not imagining it—are the bloody unicorn slippers.
Miranda steps forward a little, like she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to be here.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, almost accusatory. “I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.”
She shuffles forward, golden unicorn horns bobbing slightly with each step. Somehow, the ridiculousness of them just makes her look more like herself.
“I wasn’t supposed to be,” she says. “But I… made a decision. And I thought I should tell you in person.”
My throat tightens.
“Alright,” I manage. “Come in.”
She follows me through the front door and into the warmth of the house. In the kitchen, we both gravitate to the island—it feels like a safe space. I set Callum’s bottle on the counter, find two clean glasses, and pour.
We sit. The silence is steady, not strained.
I slide one glass across to her. She takes it, fingers brushing mine. Holds it for a moment without drinking.
Then she looks up at me, serious and steady.
No smile. No sparkle in her eyes. Not even the usual flicker of mischief.
And just like that, my stomach drops.
This is it. The final version. The “Let’s be mature about this” conversation. No wonder she came in person—it’s the clean break up talk, tied up with a bow and a dram of whisky.
I clear my throat and take a sip to brace myself. It burns a little going down. Appropriate.
She reaches across and lays her hand gently on my arm. Warm. Steady.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For the slippers.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet.
“They helped me make a decision.”
Ah. There it is. I look down at the glass in my hand, then back at her.
“They weren’t supposed to be emotional blackmail,” I say, too quickly. “They were just—”
