Page 67 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Underwear stays on. I’m not completely deranged. But I do swap my jumper and trousers for a soft bathrobe that feels like a hug I don’t deserve. Then I stare at myself in the mirror and immediately hate everything.
I undo the ponytail so my hair falls around my shoulders—too fluffy. I smooth it back into something sleeker—too harsh. Then I compromise by doing what I always do when I’ve run out of options: messy bun. Slightly chaotic. Arguably charming. Matches the rest of my personality.
The kittens are watching from the bed like they’re rating my life choices out of ten. Thor yawns. Twinklesocks blinks in slow disapproval.
“Oh hush,” I mutter, digging around in the bathroom cabinet for something vaguely spa-like. “You’ve both licked your own bums in front of houseguests. You don’t get to judge.”
I spritz a little perfume into the air like it’ll fix the general air of panic, then glance down at my toes. Chipped polish. Disaster.
Do I have time to paint them?
I crouch, rummaging in the basket under the sink for that emergency nail varnish I’m pretty sure expired back when the Princess of Wales was still Kate Middleton—
The doorbell rings.
I freeze.
Twinklesocks leaps off the bed and bolts for the door like she’s about to collect a prize.
Fuck.
He’s here.
I open the door with a kind of breezy casualness but I am not sure he is buying it.
Jasper stands there holding a large foldable massage table like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He looks calm. Infuriatingly so. Meanwhile, I’m half-dressed, half-panicking, and fully aware that I haven’t exhaled properly in about ten minutes.
“Evening,” he says, voice low and steady.
I try for a smile and probably land somewhere between polite and electrocuted. “Come in.”
He steps inside, gaze flicking around like he’s checking for exits and soft furnishings, then glances back at me.
“So… the living room?” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Feels like the least risky option.”
“Living room works,” he agrees, following me through.
The kittens are already there—naturally. Twinklesocks is perched on the arm of the sofa, eyes fixed on Jasper like she’s been waiting to pounce. Thor is lying on his back under the coffee table, contemplating the ceiling with philosophical intensity.
Jasper sets the table down and starts unfolding it without comment. Calm, capable, quietly professional. The kind of man who could probably deliver bad news while simultaneously fixing your sink and keeping your grandmother calm.
Twinklesocks trots straight over and headbutts his leg.
“Hey gorgeous,” he murmurs, crouching to greet her. She purrs, tail flicking once, then hops onto the sofa and settles like a tiny, furry chaperone.
Once the table’s up and adjusted, he pulls out a small speaker and scrolls through his phone. A few seconds later, soft, spa-adjacent piano music floats through the room. Not too cheesy. Not too romantic. Just the right side of safe.
Then he turns to me, pulling two small candles from his pockets. “Final decision before we begin. Lemony or flowery?”
I blink. “Lemony.”
He nods, sets the other aside, and lights the wick. The sharp, clean scent starts to cut through my nerves—like someone’s trying to disinfect the atmosphere.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly very aware of every thread of my bathrobe.
He looks over again, voice gentle. “Ready when you are.”
I nod, throat dry.
