Page 75 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
I look away, fiddling with a hairbrush.
“I’m fine,” I say eventually.
“I know you are. You always are.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “Just don’t forget who you were before the divorce. And who you’ve become since.”
Her words settle in my chest like a stone skipping once, twice—then sinking.
I don’t say anything at first. Just turn and pull her into a hug, careful of her tea. She squeezes me back without hesitation, all solid comfort and quiet strength.
“Thanks,” I murmur against her shoulder.
She pulls away a little, eyes kind. “Anytime. Though now, I do believe we’ve got more urgent matters—like the rogue fluff on your bum.”
I groan. “I swear, if you whip out that lint roller again—”
Amelia already has it in hand, brandished like a weapon. “Stand up. You’re wearing black. This is war.”
And just like that, we’re back in the fray—her crouched behind me like a determined valet, muttering about rogue cat hairs and my apparently invisible upper-lip situation, while I try not to cry-laugh into a throw pillow.
Honestly, who needs enemies when you’ve got a best friend like this?
Chapter nineteen
The First Moan-el
Jasper
The dining room glows with candlelight and polished silverware. Everything here is hushed elegance—from the soft clink of glasses to the gentle murmurs of other tables—but somehow, we’re making it our own. Miranda’s eyes sparkle more with every sip of wine, and I swear I haven’t stopped smiling since we sat down.
“…and I just froze,” she says, eyes wide. “Like full statue mode. Clipboard in one hand, traumatised stare in the other. Stella’s lipstick was halfway down her neck and Callum—well, let’s just say his trousers were not where trousers should be.”
I nearly choke on a sip of wine. “In the office?”
“In the office,” she confirms grimly. “I was dropping off meeting notes. I backed out as quickly as I could.”
I snort. “Please tell me you brought it up in a team meeting.”
She levels me with a look. “Absolutely not. This stays between us. I mean it, Corbin… secrecy or death.”
I raise a hand solemnly. “I take my oaths seriously.”
She grins, taking another sip of her wine, and I let myself take her in for a moment—the way she laughs with her whole face, the curve of her cheekbone when she smirks, the slightly flustered little tug she gives the sleeve of her dress whenever she’s trying not to seem flirty.
She’s stunning. In that chaotic, grounded, utterly magnetic way she probably doesn’t even realise.
“Tell me more about your brothers,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve mentioned them, but I don’t really know anything.”
I smile, leaning back slightly. “Well, there’s Geoff: oldest, photographer, moody, lives in a wool mill conversion in Highbury like he’s too artistic for walls that match. He’s the one who used to lock us in the airing cupboard when Mum wasn’t looking.”
She raises her brows. “Charming.”
“Oh, completely. He once convinced me that chocolate is made from bugs. I didn’t eat any for a year.”
She laughs. “And the other brother?”
“Theo. Middle child. He’s the nice one. Runs a coffee shop, amazing dad to Lucy, and somehow manages to look like he’s just stepped out of a wholesome Netflix romcom. Which to be fair is not too far from the truth because he found the love of his life recently.”
Miranda grins. “So basically, one evil genius, one cardigan-wearing saint, and you.”
