Page 66 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
She holds up a finger. “Not drunk. Tipsy. That fine line where your middle-class filter slips just enough for you to act on things you actually want.”
I cross my arms. “Uh-huh.”
“To prove it,” she says, stepping back with exaggerated precision, “I shall now walk in a perfectly straight line.”
And she does—or tries to. It’s not exactly straight. More... determinedly wobbly. But she makes it to the end of the path, spins neatly on the spot, and throws her arms wide.
“Ta-da. Still legally upright.”
I lean against the doorframe. “And this spontaneous sobriety demonstration is because…?”
“I’m saying yes.” She returns to the step, chin up. “To the massage.”
I raise a brow. “Now?”
She shrugs. “Why not? You said no pressure, no expectations. And honestly, it’s either let you knead the stress out of me or go home and alphabetise the spice rack in quiet despair.”
I pause, watching her. “You’re sure?”
She lets out a breath. “Absolutely. I’m going mental. I keep catching myself yelling at inanimate objects. Yesterday I told the kettle to pull itself together.”
A laugh escapes me before I can help it.
“But,” she adds quickly, “at mine. I’m not doing this in your flat. I already had to perform a bloody sobriety test. I'm not adding 'wandering the drive in my dressing gown' to the list.”
“Fair,” I say. “Your flat it is.”
She hesitates. “Right. So... how naked are we talking?”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’ll be covered the whole time. Always. I won’t see anything. Promise.”
She nods, but her nerves are clearly creeping in. “You’re really sure this isn’t weird? I mean, it’s weird. But it’s notweirdweird?”
“If you don’t want to—”
“No, no,” she rushes. “Just—ifyoudon’t want to. I mean, maybe this is mad. It’s probably mad. Maybe I should just go back inside and—”
“Miranda.”
She stops.
“Go get ready,” I say gently. “I’ll grab the table and be there in ten.”
Her shoulders drop with a half-laugh, half-sigh of relief. “Okay. Okay.”
And before she can overthink it again, she turns on her heel and heads back across the path, muttering something about clean towels and lighting that doesn’t make her look like a corpse.
I stand in the doorway for a second, then run a hand through my hair and head inside.
What the hell am I doing?
Chapter sixteen
All I Want for Christmas Is an Orgasm
Miranda
Istrip off so fast I nearly trip over my own jeans.
