Page 63 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“But instead,” Bri says, eyes glittering, “he looked at you, saw a slightly panicked yoga ball and thought, ‘I know what this woman needs—platonic tension relief.’”
Fi stifles a giggle. “Honestly? Sounds like a gift.”
“Oh, come on,” I mutter. “You really think letting Jasper Corbin manhandle me is a good idea?”
They all exchange looks.
Then, in eerie unison: “Yes.”
“Right. That’s enough about me.” I glare into my wine like it personally betrayed me. “Someone please change the subject before I fling myself into the nearest snow machine.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Amelia clears her throat. “Well… if we’re doing big revelations tonight…”
We all turn.
She bites her lip, cheeks pink from either the cold or nerves and places a protective hand over her coat zip. “I’m pregnant.”
The silence stretches for a second.
Then Lizzie gasps. Fi squeals. Bri shrieks and almost spills her drink on a foam-smeared child walking past.
“You’re what?!” I say, laughing as the others descend on her. “You’re pregnant?!”
Amelia grins sheepishly as we all pile in, arms around her, awkward in coats and gloves. “It was a bit of a surprise. Not exactly on our to do list. But… yeah. Me and Ben are happy. Shocked. But happy.”
“Oh my God! I’m finally going to be an aunt.” Fi’s practically vibrating. “Do you know how far?”
“Just over ten weeks. We were going to wait a bit longer before telling everyone, but—” she shrugs, misty-eyed, “this felt like a good night.”
Bri clutches her arm. “You’ve just made the Christmas market iconic.”
We all cheer. There’s more hugging. A lot of exclaiming. I wipe my eyes, half-blaming the cold. And when someone suggests another round of mulled wine, we all agree (except for Amelia, of course) without even pretending to hesitate.
And just like that, the air changes, from teasing to tender. Because whatever else is happening, whatever vibrating chaos or awkward tension we’ve got going on, we’re still here. Together.
And that counts for something.
Chapter fifteen
We Three Brothers of Whisky and Regret
Jasper
The steak hisses in the pan, the sizzle loud enough that I have to tilt my head towards the phone propped on the kitchen windowsill.
“Are you burning something again?” Geoff’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“It’s medium-rare,” I say flatly.
Theo snorts from his little square on the screen. “In Jasper-speak, that’s one step above cremation.”
I flip the steak and hold up my free hand. “Perfect timing. It’s artistry, actually.”
“You’re cooking a single steak at eight p.m.,” Geoff says. “That’s not artistry. That’s bleak.”
“Says the man who once ate leftover lasagne straight from the dish with a spatula,” I mutter, grabbing the butter.
