Page 31 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“…and reindeer socks. For you.”
I add a wink.
Miranda turns scarlet.
Behind her, there’s a collective ripple—a sharp inhale, a cough that’s clearly masking a laugh. Amelia leans gently back against the fridge, looking quietly delighted. Lizzie lets out a muffled cackle. One of the others gives a soft whoop. The fourth just beams.
Miranda looks like she’d quite like the floor to swallow her whole. “Thank you,” she mutters, taking the basket as if it’s timed to explode.
I glance at the others, whose expressions range from amused to predatory. From the general atmosphere, it’s safe to assume I’ve been discussed.
“I won’t keep you,” I say, stepping back. “Just wanted to welcome you properly. In daylight, this time.”
I get another quiet “Thanks” from her.
I glance at Amelia, the only one of Miranda’s friends who I have met in the past. “Tell Ben I said hi.”
“Will do,” Amelia replies, grinning far too widely.
“Have a good afternoon, ladies.”
I turn and head back out of the house, and just before the door swings shut behind me, I catch a whisper of Amelia’s voice—
“See? This is why you always answer the door with lip balm and a bra.”
***
The pool’s already buzzing when I walk in—humid air, too much chlorine, and the sharp echo of kids' swimming lessons finishing up.
There are three lanes. The far left has a man floating on his back. The middle one’s a slow crawl of elbows and effort.
Callum’s in the third, the fast lane—our lane—sitting on the edge, flicking water off his fingers.
He notices me as I walk over. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out.”
“Sorry, had to make a delivery,” I say, dropping my towel onto the bench.
I climb in. Cold. Sharp. Good.
We swim ten lengths to warm up and I can feel the familiar enjoyment my muscles get from swimming. I’m not keen on the gym even if I do run on the treadmill quite often. It always feels like a work out, punishment for something. Swimming feels like a reward.
We pause at the deep end, arms hooked over the edge, water lapping quietly around us.
Callum nudges my arm with his elbow. “You met the tenant yet?”
“That was the delivery,” I say. “Had to drop off a gift basket.”
He glances over. “A basket?”
“Mm.”
“What was in it?”
“Bread. Salt. Chocolate for the kid. Kitten food.”
His brow furrows. “That’s... surprisingly thoughtful. For you.”
I shrug. “Felt like something a landlord should do.”
