Page 30 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“You patted his chest.”
“That was cat-related.”
“Sure it was.”
Fi lifts her mug. “To fresh starts.”
I groan into my hands. “To public humiliation.”
Chapter eight
Away in a Basket
Jasper
There’s the faint sound of voices through the shared wall. Nothing distinct, just the low murmur that says someone’s home.
I grab the basket of bits I’d panic-bought at the big Asda in the next village and head outside. This morning’s mad dash wasn’t retail therapy, it was damage control. All in the noble name of being a good neighbour… or at least a half-decent landlord.
It’s a few steps along the garden path to the annexe. I ring the bell and wait. I’m still not sure what to make of Miranda.
She’d turned up in reindeer pyjamas, slippers, and a panicked crouch like she was mid-espionage. Chaos in human form. But there’d been something else too. Something warm. Feminine. Unexpectedly delightful.
Enticing, if I’m being honest.
The door swings open.
But it’s not her.
It’s a tall, curvy woman I don’t think I’ve seen before. She gives me a slow, deliberate once-over and a grin that says she’s enjoying the view.
“You must be the landlord,” she says.
“Jasper,” I reply. “Jasper Corbin.”
She extends a hand, all confidence and cheek. “Lizzie. Tenant’s friend. Occasional bad influence. Come in.”
Before I can protest, she’s already stepping aside, waving me in like I’m expected—which, based on Miranda’s face when she appears from the back of the flat, I absolutely am not.
Eyes go wide. A flush creeps up her neck.
“Miranda,” Lizzie singsongs. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Miranda blinks at me, startled, guilty, flustered like I’ve caught her smuggling antiques or singing into a hairbrush.
She’s dressed this time. Black dungarees over a stripy top, blonde hair in two neat plaits that make her look both younger and... still somehow dangerously distracting.
She is slightly less chaotic than this morning but still delightfully crazy.
I clear my throat, keeping my tone smooth.
“Apologies for the interruption,” I say, holding up the basket. “Just thought I’d drop this off.”
She watches it with caution.
“I’m not big on flowers,” I go on. “They die in three days and shed everywhere, which feels like a pointed metaphor for most housewarming gifts. So instead—bread and salt. Traditional. For a new home. There’s some kitten food in there, chocolate for your son…”
A beat.
