Page 44 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“I should go anyway,” I say, stretching like this has all gone to plan. “My brothers are coming over for dinner.”
Callum lets out a laugh. “You want a BAFTA for that performance or are you saving it for something with more dramatic range?”
Stella smacks him lightly on the arm. “Be nice.”
“Why? That lie had a wobble in the second act.”
I ignore both of them, tugging on my coat and grabbing my notebook. “Right. Well. Glad we cleared that up.”
“Crystal,” Callum says, not bothering to hide the grin. “Enjoy dinner with the brothers.”
I walk out before either of them can keep going—and before I say something defensive that confirms everything they’re already thinking.
In the hall, Miranda’s just zipping up her coat. She looks up, a bit surprised. “Oh. You’re done?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thought I’d catch you before you left.”
She tilts her head slightly. Waiting.
I clear my throat. “Do you want a lift?”
Her eyebrows twitch upward. “Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“Of course,” I say, cutting her off before she can wriggle out of it. “We’re heading the same way. And it looks like rain again.”
She glances toward the window, as if to confirm it—grey sky, heavy clouds, that thick pressure in the air that always seems to come just before it really lets loose. She nods once, fast. “Okay. Thanks.”
Outside, the wind’s picked up. Damp and cold. I unlock the car, open the passenger door for her without saying anything. She gives me a brief look—unreadable—before climbing in. I round the front and slide in beside her.
The drive is quiet. Not awkward, exactly. Just... still.
She fiddles with the strap of her bag. I keep my eyes on the road but I am distracted. The heater hums gently, cutting through the chill. I could say something—about the meeting, about the lights she was putting up, about anything—but I don’t. Neither does she.
She shifts in her seat once, then again. Crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. I notice every little move. I can’t help it.
As we pull onto our road, she finally speaks. Voice soft, almost like she doesn’t want to break the air between us.
“Thanks for the lift.”
I nod. “Anytime.”
And I mean it. Probably more than I should.
I pull into the drive and kill the engine. She’s already halfway out of the car before I’ve even unclipped my seatbelt, making a beeline for the flat with that slightly hunched, I-am-casual-but-escaping energy she does when she’s not quite sure what to do with me.
I follow at a slower pace, locking the car behind me, hands shoved in my pockets. The air’s sharp, damp with the threat of rain. We’re both heading the same way—just with different doors waiting at the end.
She reaches hers first.
And then pauses.
Bends down. Fiddles with something. I squint—it’s a baking tray. A large, slightly dented one. She’s bracing it along the bottom of the door like she’s about to shield herself from a domestic explosion.
I slow.
“What are you doing?”
She straightens, startled. “Oh. Uh… kitten containment.”
