Page 25 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
That’s when I see her properly for the first time.
Hair in a chaotic bun, tendrils escaping in every direction. Big eyes. Shocked expression. And the faint, universal look of someone whodefinitelydidn’t plan to meet anyone before 7 a.m.
She blinks. “Hi.”
Then she points weakly at the orange fluff glued to my chest. “That’s... yes. Twinklesocks.”
I glance down at the kitten
She looks up at me. Slow blink. Like she’s confirming it, “Yes, that’s my ridiculous name.”
My gaze drifts back to the woman: breathless, hair in full mutiny, weird pyjamas, slippers, eyes far too wide for this hour. And still, she is adorable… no, stunning.
Brilliant.
The kitten’s trouble.
But the woman?
Quite possibly worse.
Chapter seven
Do You Hear What I Hear? (It's a Landlord)
Miranda
Ifreeze.
Absolutely, completely, brain-has-left-the-building freeze.
Standing in front of me—barefoot, shirtless, a ginger kitten draped across his chest as if he’s auditioning for a calendar titledPaws and Abs—is a man who can only be described as... illegal.
Dark hair with golden streaks like he’s spent the summer surfing instead of paying council tax. A jawline with actual stubble, not the sort of half-hearted fluff most men call “‘beard goals”. And eyes… deep brown, bordering on black. Eyes that make you forget your name, postcode, and possibly your own child’s birthday.
Thisis Jasper?
This is my landlord?
I take a step forward to collect Twinklesocks. That’s all I mean to do. A simple handoff.
But instead of reaching for her, my traitorous hand taps his chest muscle.
Taps.
Hispec.
Like I’m checking the ripeness of a melon.
I freeze again. The kitten blinks. He blinks. I want the ground to swallow me whole.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, pulling my hand back like it’s been burned. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—sorry.”
And just as I think it can’t get worse, I remember what I’m wearing.
Reindeer pyjamas. Bloody reindeer pyjamas.
Under an open winter coat that makes me look like I’ve escaped from an off-brand Nordic crime drama. My slippers—the ones Amelia calls “old man chic” with deep concern—are soggy from the grass and currently squelching every time I shift my weight.
