Page 79 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
He releases me with a theatrical sigh, running a hand through his chaos of morning hair.
“Fine,” he says. “But I’m timing you. Take the keys from the bowl next to the front door.”
I slip on my dress and pause in the doorway, stealing one last look at him… tousled and naked, duvet low on his hips, eyes heavy with sleep and something softer.
I try not to melt. I really do.
But it’s hard when he looks at me like that, all rumpled and drowsy and devastating.
Still, I manage to peel myself away and make the quick dash next door. Twinklesocks is at the cat gate waiting like she’s filed a formal complaint, and Thor lets out a long, mournful meow as if I’ve been gone a week and not just one night.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, flicking on the kitchen light and heading straight for the food cupboard. “I’m a monster. A terrible, neglectful parent.”
They forgive me the second the bowls hit the floor. Naturally.
While they devour their breakfast like starving Dickensian orphans, I get changed into some comfortable clothes, slap together some toast, make two strong mugs of tea, and try not to overthink the fact that I’m carrying breakfast for a man I definitely didn’t plan to sleep with—and am now about to crawl back into bed with.
When I return, Jasper is, unsurprisingly, asleep again. Sprawled across the bed like a man who knows he has nowhere to be and isn’t sorry about it. One arm flung above his head, the other resting on his chest. A bit of duvet, a lot of bare skin. And hair that looks like it’s been in negotiations with a pillow for eight hours straight.
I set the tray down, slip onto the bed, and kiss him softly.
He stirs with a groan and a crooked smile. “Mmm. That’s a very good way to wake up.”
“I come bearing toast,” I say, brushing a kiss to his jaw.
“You might actually be perfect.”
“Don’t ruin it. Eat before it gets cold.”
He tugs me gently until I’m sitting next to him, one arm wrapping around my waist as I settle in. We share the toast between sips of tea, warm limbs tangled, crumbs everywhere, and not a single care given.
Then, somewhere between the last bite and the next kiss, he murmurs against my cheek, “Spend the day with me.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “The whole day?”
He nods, thumb brushing along the hem of my T-shirt. “SJ’s not back till tomorrow, right?”
“Nope.”
“Then stay. We’ll do whatever you like. Go for a walk. Watch a terrible film. Eat more toast. Or not leave this bed at all. I’m flexible.”
I snort. “Clearly.”
But something in his tone is tender. Hopeful. And it sinks in—the idea that maybe this doesn’t have to be just one night. That maybe this could stretch into something with edges and shape and softness.
“Alright,” I say, voice light. “I’m all yours.”
“Good,” he says, pulling me closer. “Because I was going to bribe you with the last bite of my toast if necessary.”
I’m sprawled across the bed as Jasper’s hands move lazily over my back. The room is bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon sunlight, filtering through the curtains and casting a golden hue over everything. We’ve spent the entire day here, in this cocoon of comfort, talking, laughing, and simply enjoying each other’s company. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this at ease with someone, and I can’t help but marvel at the deep sense of connection with Jasper.
“How about another massage?” I murmur, my voice soft and laced with a hint of invitation. His hands pause for a moment, and I feel his gaze on me before he nods, his fingers resuming their slow, rhythmic strokes.
“Of course,” he replies, his deep, soothing voice sending a shiver down my spine. “Anything for you, Miranda.”
I close my eyes, letting the warmth of his touch seep into my muscles. Jasper’s hands are strong yet gentle, his movements deliberate and practiced. He starts at my shoulders, kneading the tension away with firm pressure, his thumbs digging into the knots that have formed from months of stress. I let out a soft sigh, my body relaxing into the mattress as he works his way down my spine.
His hands glide lower, tracing the curve of my waist before moving to my hips. I feel his fingers press into the soft flesh, his touch firm but tender. There’s something intimate about this, something that goes beyond the physical. It’s as if he’s not just massaging my body but also soothing my soul.
