Page 46 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Still nothing.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m flushed, I’m tense, I’m swollen in all the right places. Everything’s twitching and aching and on the edge. But it’s the wrong edge. Like the build-up’s all static and no signal. My brain keeps drifting. Overthinking. Slipping out of it.
One moment I’m watching the porn and the next I’m wondering if I remembered to put the laundry on. Then it’s Jasper, out of nowhere—standing in the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves like some kind of M&S ad with attitude, and suddenly I’m all flustered and distracted and not in the good way.
I throw my head back on the cushion and groan.
“I bought you forresults,” I mutter, flicking through the settings again.
The vibrator ramps up into something worryingly close to lawnmower mode. It buzzes against me with all the subtlety of a construction site, but still—nothing.
I twist my hips. Breathe deeper. Try to let go. Try to focus. Think sexy thoughts.
Just then, the doorbell rings.
I pause.
It goes again—ding-dong, bright and annoyingly chipper, like it knows exactly what I’m doing and would very much like me to stop.
I try to ignore it. Try to breathe through it. But the moment’s gone. Whatever tiny thread I was clinging to has snapped. There’s no sexy thought in the world strong enough to compete with a doorbell going off mid-lawnmower.
I groan, frustrated beyond all human measure, and yank the vibrator out. It makes a defeated little noise as I switch it off and drop it unceremoniously onto the towel I’ve been sitting on. I wrap the whole thing up in one quick, vaguely ashamed bundle and shove it behind the cushion like I’m hiding contraband.
Then I pause the porn—a still frame of the twink gasping with his ankles pointing to the ceiling—and pull my yoga pants up. Face smoothed. Dignity… left somewhere in the cushions, probably.
I march to the door.
Whoever this is better be bleeding. Or be on fire.
I swing the door open, ready to give someone a piece of my mind, and nearly forget how to swallow.
It’s Jasper.
In a tight black T-shirt that looks about one accidental stretch away from becoming illegal, and cargo trousers that wouldn’t be out of place in a 1997 boyband music video. He’s holding a toolbox in one hand like some kind of rugged DIY centrefold. There’s a stack of wood and a box leaning up against the wall next to him.
He looks hot.
Like, absurdly hot.
And I—I look like I’ve just lost a fight with a malfunctioning sex toy and gay porn film.
Brilliant.
“I’m here to install a barrier for the front door,” he says, straightforward. “Something solid to stop the kittens slipping through when you open it.”
I blink. Possibly twice. “Right…”
He shifts slightly—not impatient, just deliberate. “Also thought I could fence in the patio. Give you a bit of freedom to leave the back door open without worrying they’ll bolt. Figured it’d make things easier.”
He nods toward the timber stacked against the wall, then looks back at me, steady. No smirk. No flourish. Just calm, capable helpfulness wrapped in a frankly criminal T-shirt.
“Oh,” I say, mouth already two seconds behind the rest of me. “That’s… thoughtful.”
He waits. Just giving me time.
Eventually, I remember how to open doors like a functional human and step aside. “Come in.”
He ducks slightly to pass me—not that he needs to—and walks in with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. He smells faintly of sawdust and fresh air and something warm and clean.
