Page 40 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Not a whisker.
By the time I admit defeat, I’m soaked. Hair plastered to my face. Socks damp. Coat doing its best but losing the battle. I’m freezing, sniffling, and one sharp breath away from crying in public—which I refuse to do, mostly on principle.
I trudge home, blinking away tears and trying to convince myself she’ll come back. Cats do. That’s what everyone says. They have a good sense of direction. And apparently no sense of guilt, the furry little sociopaths.
I turn the corner onto my drive just in time to see headlights sweep across the front of the house.
Jasper’s car pulls in behind me, slow and quiet.
Of course.
Of course he’d come home just in time to witness the full damp tragedy of my existence.
He parks. Steps out. Opens an umbrella and looks over at me.
We just stare at each other for a moment. Him, dry and calm. Me, drenched and vibrating with barely restrained emotion, looking like I’ve crawled out of a lake to deliver a warning about water safety.
I try to say something—anything—but my throat’s too tight.
And then, from the left—theleft, where I swear she didnotrun—a soggy streak of ginger fur bolts out of the bushes and makes a beeline for him.
“Twinklesocks!” I breathe, stunned.
She skids to a stop at his feet, tail up, fur wet, looking delighted with herself. He crouches smoothly and scoops her up with one hand. She immediately nestles in like he’s her long-lost lover and this is all perfectly normal.
I blink at them. At her. At the wrong direction.
“I thought she ran right,” I say, too tired to filter myself.
Jasper shrugs under the umbrella, stroking her damp head with his thumb. “Maybe she changed her mind.”
I let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The rain trickles down my neck, and I suddenly feel the full weight of it—the wet, the worry, the humiliation of the whole chase. He straightens up, still holding her, and gives me a look I can’t quite read.
Something steady. Something that makes my skin feel too tight under my coat.
I step forward, arms outstretched. “I’ll—erm—take her.”
Twinklesocks promptly tucks herself deeper into his chest and lets out a tiny, manipulative purr.
“Oh, don’t start,” I mutter to her.
Jasper doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow slightly as he gently transfers her into my arms. She makes a token protest noise. One of her paws stays stretched in his direction like she’s clutching at the love of her short, ridiculous life.
“Traitor,” I whisper into her damp fur.
He offers me the ghost of a smile, umbrella still steady above us, as if this is all perfectly normal and not the climax of a minor Greek tragedy involving kittens and emotional instability.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, cheeks burning. “Really. Sorry about her. And me. The… whole situation.”
“It’s fine,” he says, that same maddeningly smooth tone. “She’s welcome any time.”
I let out an embarrassed little laugh, half-drowned by the rain. “Right. I’ll just… get her inside. Before she develops a full crush and starts bringing you socks.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I freeze.
Oh God.
Oh God!
