Page 59 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Lucy nods. “And he’s not allowed to sit down ‘cause he ripped the last dress.”
Jasper shakes his head, still laughing. “She’s not even exaggerating. Imagine Bruce Banner transforming into the Hulk.”
Lucy grins. “But with a sparkly dress.”
“Exactly,” Jasper says. “You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a six-foot-five guy, who plays rugby every weekend, having tea whilst wearing a sparkly princess dress.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “He sounds like a great uncle.”
Lucy doesn’t even pause. “He is,” she says proudly, then turns to Jasper and pats his arm. “But you’re a great uncle too. Even if you don’t wear the dress.”
Jasper’s face softens. “Thanks, Lu.”
She shrugs like it’s just a fact. “You always bring snacks. And you didn’t get cross when I glittered your shoes.”
“I had to go to a meeting in those,” he chuckles.
“You sparkled,” she replies with a dreamy sigh.
Across the table, SJ snorts into his juice. “Were they expensive shoes?”
“Handmade,” Jasper says grimly. “Gold glitter. It did not come off.”
I glance at him, watching the corner of his mouth twitch, the way he doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by any of it.
And I don’t know what to make of that.
By the time dessert is finished—two yoghurts, one crushed custard cream and something SJ insisted was a “palate cleanser” involving jelly—the energy starts to dip. Lucy’s eyelids are drooping between bites, and SJ’s gone quiet in that suspicious way that usually means he’s either tired or planning something involving string and an ambitious pulley system.
“I should get her home,” Jasper says, lightly brushing crumbs off his jumper. “Before she turns into a pumpkin. Or a glitter grenade.”
Lucy makes a soft protesting noise but doesn’t argue. She leans into him again, this time with a sigh that has bedtime written all over it.
Jasper gets to his feet, scooping her up like it’s nothing. She tucks her head into his shoulder, already halfway to sleep, and I can’t help but notice the ease of it. No fuss. No awkwardness. Just muscle memory.
I walk him to the door, arms crossed more for structure than warmth.
“Thanks for dinner,” he says, voice lower now that the house has quieted.
I nod. “Thanks for the plumbing rescue.”
“Any time,” he says with a smile. “Though next time I’d prefer slightly less water.”
“Noted,” I say. “Next crisis will be fire-based. Much tidier.”
He chuckles, then adjusts Lucy in his arms as she makes a soft snuffling noise against his shoulder.
I hold out their jackets to him and he wraps it loosely around Lucy to protect her from the cold, even if it is just a few steps.
“Night, Miranda.”
“Night.”
With SJ off in London for a birthday party-slash-sleepover extravaganza involving bowling, fizzy sweets, a round of Slush Puppies, and whatever sugar-fuelled chaos his dad’s signed up for, I’ve been left with an evening entirely to myself.
So naturally, I spent twenty minutes pacing the living room trying to decide if I wanted to spend it in silence, in pyjamas, or at the bottom of a bottle of red, before settling on a fourth option.
Mulled wine. With backup.
