Page 57 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
She pouts instantly, bottom lip out like a professional. “But I want to stay! It’s more fun here.”
I reach down and gently lift Twinklesocks off my chest. She makes a soft noise of protest and latches on to my trouser leg the second her paws hit the floor.
“You can’t come with me,” I mutter to her.
Miranda, who’s been quietly watching from the counter, says, “You could stay. I’ve got cottage pie in the oven. Plenty to go round.”
I glance at her. She’s casual about it, as if she’s just suggesting a bin day or the weather tomorrow.
Lucy immediately turns to me with the force of someone who’s just had her wildest dreams confirmed. “Cottage pie! That’s my favourite!”
“It’s got carrots in it,” I warn her.
“I’ll survive.”
Twinklesocks is now attempting to scale my shin.
I look back at Miranda, who meets my eyes with a look that’s calm, unreadable, but not closed.
“You sure?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m not the world’s best cook but my Cottage pie is legendary.”
I smile. “Sold.”
Lucy fist-pumps the air like a small, victorious knight and runs off to tell SJ, presumably by shouting at full volume from three inches away.
I reach down and detach Twinklesocks from my trousers again.
Miranda watches the scene unfold with faint amusement and says, “She really does like you.”
I straighten up, brushing fur from my jumper. “I’m a likeable guy,” I say lightly. “Semi-decent with plumbing. Pretty solid with cats and five-year-olds.”
She arches an eyebrow, but there’s the tiniest flicker of a smile.
“I’ll go turn the water back on,” I add. “If anything starts spraying again, shout.”
She gives a dry sort of nod. “If it explodes, you’re first to hear about it.”
I head out into the cold again, flick open the stubborn panel, and twist the stopcock back into place. There’s a shudder in the pipe, a faint creak through the wall. No immediate torrent of disaster, which feels like a win.
Back inside, I wait for a moment by the sink, watching. A slow drip… then nothing.
“All good?” I call.
Miranda’s already crouched down, peering into the cupboard. “Dry,” she confirms. “For now.”
We don’t say anything else.
Instead, we move—wordlessly—to the job of mopping up.
Towels are gathered, wrung, swapped out. A basin appears from somewhere. I find the mop and start chasing water into the corners while Miranda folds the least-wet tea towels over the back of a chair.
There’s a quiet between us. Not comfortable, not awkward—just heavy. Like the room knows what was being said before Lucy burst in, and is politely pretending it didn’t hear.
She hands me a dry cloth at one point, fingers brushing mine. Neither of us looks up.
The only sound is the soft squelch of damp towels and the faint rattle of the fan in the oven behind us.
