Page 26 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
I look like a madwoman.
Because Iamone. One who sprinted into the garden at half six in the morning because her eight-year-old ran from the hallway in a whisper-panic to report that Twinklesocks had jumped out the open bathroom window “and might be gone forever.”
I didn’t ask why the bathroom window was open. I didn’t stop to grab a hairbrush or dignity. I just bolted.
And now I’m standing here, dressed like Christmas had a breakdown, having just pawed the chest of a man who looks like he belongs on a yacht. In Monaco.
Fantastic.
He shifts his weight slightly, still holding Twinklesocks like she’s a prize he’s won without trying, and says, far too calmly for someone who’s just been groped by a woman in novelty pyjamas, “Jasper Corbin.”
He evensmiles.
Not a full smile, just a smug little curl of the lips, like this is going straight in his mental highlight reel.
I let out a noise. Possibly a laugh. Possibly a small internal implosion. “Right. Miranda. I’m your tenant. Thank you. For... the kitten.”
He glances down at the ginger menace now purring into his sternum like she’s claiming him as her owner. “She’s very... assertive.”
“Not usually,” I lie, managing to retrieve her without incident this time. “She’s just exploring. Territory. Windows. Freedom.”
“Legs,” he adds, eyes flicking to mine. “She seemed fond of licking mine.”
I make a sound that might be a strangled apology and edge backwards, Twinklesocks tucked under one arm like contraband.
“I’ll just—yes. Thank you again. Sorry.”
I turn to flee, but he calls after me, mild as anything: “I wasn’t told there’d be a cat.”
I stop.
Not because I want to. Because guilt—and British social conditioning—physically won’t let me keep walking.
I half-turn, Twinklesocks dangling under my arm. “It’s... um. Two, actually.”
His eyebrows lift, slowly. “Two.”
“Stella said it was fine,” I blurt. “I did ask. She said Jasper… I mean, you…. wouldn’t mind. And she’s the one who showed me round, and she approved the application and everything, so I assumed... well, you know. That she’d... mentioned it.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stands there, lean and far too shirtless for a conversation about tenancy boundaries, while a faint breeze moves through his already infuriatingly perfect hair.
Then, at last, he nods once. “Of course. If Stella said it’s fine...”
Oh no.
That tone. That very specific, deeply sarcastic tone of a man who’s just been overruled by a woman he’s clearly lost battles to before.
I open my mouth. Close it again. Nod, weakly. “Thank you. I’ll, um. Go.”
And this time, he lets me.
Because apparently, I have embarrassed myself quite enough for one morning.
I manage to shut the door behind me without dropping Twinklesocks or collapsing entirely. Just.
From the kitchen, I hear cereal being crunched.
I stumble in, still clutching the kitten like she’s the last shred of my dignity.
