Page 50 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
So I keep going. Gently. Carefully.
“You’re wound up like a wind-up toy, Miranda. Anyone with eyes can see it. Shoulders to your ears. Jaw locked. No wonder nothing’s working. You’re carrying everything—and holding it so tight there’s no space left for anything else.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t bolt either. Just looks at me like I’ve stepped off a spaceship.
“I spent a summer in Bali,” I say. “After I sold my company and the money came in. Didn’t know what to do with myself, so I learned from a relaxation genius. Proper massage training. Not the sleazy kind. Real stuff. Therapy without expectations.”
A pause. Just long enough.
“I could help you relax. That’s all. Platonic. Therapeutic, if you like.”
I wait.
Because it’s her call now.
But she still hasn’t run.
She looks torn.
Her eyes drop to the floor, then flick back up to my face, like she’s checking whether I’m joking or dangerous or both. She opens her mouth. Closes it.
For a moment, I think she’s going to say yes.
And then—quietly, with a small apologetic smile—she says, “Maybe just the cat-proofing of the flat… for now.”
I nod. Not disappointed. Maybe even relieved. “Of course.”
I clear my throat and make my voice as calm and neutral as I can. “If you ever change your mind, the offer’s there. No pressure. No questions. No expectations. All professional.”
She nods quickly, tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
I glance towards the front door. “Might be easiest to lock the kittens in the bathroom while I install the gate. Last thing I need is Thor wedging himself under a skirting board or launching himself into the hedge mid-build.”
“Right,” she says, grateful for the shift in topic. “Good idea.”
She scoops up Twinklesocks, who immediately starts wailing in protest, full drama. Thor trots along behind them as if he knows something suspicious is happening.
I hear the bathroom door click shut, followed by the tap running. I give her the privacy. Start unpacking the box. Lining up the screws. Measuring the frame. Letting the shift to work mode settle me again.
It helps. Mostly.
Still—as I drill the first guide holes into the frame, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve gone too far.
She was already rattled, barely holding herself together, and I just… offered my hands. Not likethat, but still. There’s a line between helping and overstepping. I’m not entirely sure I didn’t cross it.
A half an hour later, the retractable gate clicks into place with satisfying ease. The kittens won’t be flinging themselves into the driveway anytime soon.
I’m just wiping down the last bit of dust when I hear her approach. She’s barefoot now, and the sound of her steps on the floorboards is soft, tentative.
I look up.
She’s holding a mug. Steam curls from the top. She holds it out.
“Tea,” she says. “Builder’s strength. Figured you’d earned it.”
I take it with a nod. “Thanks.”
She leans against the wall, arms crossed—casual, but not quite relaxed.
