Page 108 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“Exactly,” Bri says. “We’re excellent at—" The doorbell cuts of the last of Bri’s sentence.
“Oh, someone at the door. Sim-Sim might be early. Have a fab Christmas, you wonderful women! I’ll text and see you next week!” I say quickly, grabbing my phone and hitting end as I slide, sock-footed, down the hallway.
A chorus of “Love you!” and “Don’t die in Cornwall!” chimes out just before the call cuts.
I reach the door, still pulling my cardigan into place, and open it.
It’s not Sim-Sim.
It’s Jasper.
He stands on the step in a grey knitted jumper and tan cargo trousers, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a medium sized, neatly wrapped box. The kind of box that makes you want to open it immediately.
He looks like he’s stepped straight out of an outdoorsy winter catalogue, all casual handsomeness and light stubble. A complete clit-bait.
“Merry Christmas,” he says in his deep voice that has more than once invaded my dreams.
“Oh,” I breathe, surprised. “Merry Christmas. You look—” I stop myself before the wordridiculously goodescapes. “—well.”
He smiles, just a little. “You’re all packed?”
“Mostly. Nearly. Ish.” I step aside. “Do you want to come in?”
He glances past me, into the hallway. Then shakes his head.
“I’m on my way to the shops,” he says. “Didn’t want to interrupt. I just wasn’t sure when you were leaving.”
His gaze flicks down, and he holds out the box.
“I wanted to give you this.”
I blink at it, stupidly.
“Oh. Jasper, I didn’t— I haven’t got you anything. I didn’t think—”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. Really. It’s nothing big. I just saw it and thought of you. And I wanted you to have it.”
My hands curl around the wrapping paper almost reluctantly, like accepting it feels like a commitment to something I’m no longer sure I’m allowed to have.
“But,” he adds gently, “you’re not allowed to open it before Christmas Day. That’s non-negotiable.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite the weight in my chest. “I can probably manage that.”
“Good.” His hands slip back into his trouser pockets. “That’s all, really.”
For a second, neither of us says anything. The air smells faintly of pine and the cinnamon candle I lit earlier. It’s too quiet.
Then I manage, “Thank you.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they should. “You’re welcome.”
We stand there for another second, the silence stretching just enough to feel fragile.
“Have a lovely Christmas,” he says, and the tone of his voice gives me goosebumps.
“You too,” I reply. “Really.”
He nods once, then steps back off the mat, hands deep in his pockets again. I don’t know what else to say, and he doesn’t give me time to find it.
