Page 71 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Instead, I cross to the kitchen and wash my hands whilst pretending, for both our sakes, that my heartbeat isn’t thudding through every joint. That my hands aren’t still warm from her.
Behind me, there’s the soft rustle of movement. The quiet sound of fabric against skin. The slight shuffle of her slipping back into the robe. Every small sound feels louder than it should. Or maybe that’s just the silence sitting between us now.
I let out a slow breath, centring myself. I’m hard. Obviously. No amount of steady breathing’s fixing that just yet. But this isn’t about me. Never was. I give it space. Let it burn itself down. Quiet the part of me that’s screaming to go back to the table and—
“Okay,” Miranda says, her voice back—not shaky, not soft. Just… composed. Dignified, even.
I turn around slowly. She’s got the robe tied neatly, her cheeks still flushed, her hair slightly mussed. She’s trying for casual. Pulling it off, almost. But her eyes catch mine, and something flickers.
“Feel better?” I ask, careful not to layer the words too thick.
She nods.
There’s a pause—not long, not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Weighted. Her fingers brush the edge of the robe’s tie, then drop.
“I should go,” I say, my voice a little rougher than intended.
She doesn’t stop me. Just gives a quick nod. “Thanks again… for everything.”
I grab my things slowly, methodically—the towel, the oil, the table. It feels weirdly ceremonial. Like cleaning up after something holy, only with a foldable massage table and a wildly unprofessional erection that I’m doing my best to pretend never happened.
At the door, I turn back.
She’s standing where I left her, near the sofa, back straight, chin up—but her eyes are following me like she’s not quite ready for me to be gone. Like part of her still hasn’t come down from wherever she was.
“Miranda.”
She locks eyes with me.
And I say it before I talk myself out of it.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
The silence stretches—not awkward, just... sharp. Like we’ve stepped onto a new line and neither of us is sure how deep the water goes.
Her brows lift slightly. “Dinner?”
“Not as a favour. Not as a thank-you. Just… dinner. With me. Because I’d really like to take you out.”
She hesitates for a beat, eyes flicking to mine like she’s searching for the catch. Then, softly, “I’m chaos.”
I smile. “I like chaos.”
That earns me the smallest laugh, real, if a little surprised. “Saturday, then,” she says. “SJ’s at his dad’s again.”
“Saturday it is.”
We stand there for a moment longer, both pretending we’re not still buzzing from everything that came before.
Then she smiles, properly this time. “Goodnight, Jasper.”
“’Night, Miranda.”
I close the door behind me. The air’s colder now, but somehow, I feel warmer than I have in weeks.
Chapter eighteen
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Co-parenting
