Page 51 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Then, without looking at me, she says, “If I were interested—not saying I am—what would it entail?”
She delivers it like she’s asking about garden waste collection.
I take a sip of tea. Let the question hang for a second, just to make sure it’s real.
Then I look at her. “In this context?”
She nods. “Mmhmm.”
I take another sip of tea, mostly to buy a second. Because this—this is where I should tread carefully.
It was easy to offer. To say purely platonic, no expectations, just help. But now that she’s actually asking? Now that the idea is hovering between us like static?
It feels a lot less platonic.
“I’d keep it professional,” I say, voice even. “Massage table. Fully covered. Light pressure at first, just to get your body used to being touched without flinching. Breathing cues. Stretching. Nothing invasive.”
She glances up at that. I hold her gaze, steady.
“You’d be in control. At any point, if something didn’t feel right, it stops. You say when. I’d check in, keep everything clear. Boundaries defined.”
She nods again, slower this time. Still listening. Still deciding.
I take another sip of tea to hide the way my jaw tightens.
Because the truth is, this is probably a bad idea.
I’ve massaged plenty of people when I was in Bali, even a few dates when I was back in the UK. And once Geoff when he pulled a muscle in his back playing rugby. There isn’t anything in it. It is just a massage. I can offer that to anyone.
But Miranda isn’t just anyone.
And the idea of laying my hands on her—on that soft curve of her lower back, the tension tucked into her shoulders, the line of her neck when she tips her head back—it already has my pulse speeding up.
I could do it. Of course I could.
But I’m not sure I’d be able to do it withoutwanting.
And wanting is dangerous.
Especially when she’s lonely. Raw.
I take a breath. Steady myself.
“If you were interested,” I say, matching her tone, “it would be a simple back massage. Working out the knots… the tension. Just a way to let your body remember how to relax. That’s all.”
That’s the lie I tell myself.
That’s the bit I pretend I’d be able to stick to.
She hums, like she’s thinking it over—but I already know she’s not going to say yes.
Sure enough, after a beat she straightens from the wall and says, “Right. Thanks. That was just me being nosy, anyway. I’m not really… considering it.”
Her voice is casual. Breezy (maybe a bit too breezy). She waves a hand, like she’s brushing away the entire conversation, then disappears back into the flat before I can read her expression properly.
I nod to the empty hallway like an idiot.
“Right.”
