Chapter 7 Do You Hear What I Hear? （It’s a Landlord）
Chapter seven
Do You Hear What I Hear? (It's a Landlord)
Miranda
Ifreeze.
Absolutely, completely, brain-has-left-the-building freeze.
Standing in front of me—barefoot, shirtless, a ginger kitten draped across his chest as if he’s auditioning for a calendar titled Paws and Abs—is a man who can only be described as... illegal.
Dark hair with golden streaks like he’s spent the summer surfing instead of paying council tax.
A jawline with actual stubble, not the sort of half-hearted fluff most men call “‘beard goals”. And eyes… deep brown, bordering on black. Eyes that make you forget your name, postcode, and possibly your own child’s birthday.
This is Jasper?
This is my landlord?
I take a step forward to collect Twinklesocks. That’s all I mean to do. A simple handoff.
But instead of reaching for her, my traitorous hand taps his chest muscle.
Taps.
His pec.
Like I’m checking the ripeness of a melon.
I freeze again. The kitten blinks. He blinks. I want the ground to swallow me whole.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, pulling my hand back like it’s been burned. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—sorry.”
And just as I think it can’t get worse, I remember what I’m wearing.
Reindeer pyjamas. Bloody reindeer pyjamas.
Under an open winter coat that makes me look like I’ve escaped from an off-brand Nordic crime drama. My slippers—the ones Amelia calls “old man chic” with deep concern—are soggy from the grass and currently squelching every time I shift my weight.
I look like a madwoman.
Because I am one. One who sprinted into the garden at half six in the morning because her eight-year-old ran from the hallway in a whisper-panic to report that Twinklesocks had jumped out the open bathroom window “and might be gone forever.”
I didn’t ask why the bathroom window was open. I didn’t stop to grab a hairbrush or dignity. I just bolted.
And now I’m standing here, dressed like Christmas had a breakdown, having just pawed the chest of a man who looks like he belongs on a yacht. In Monaco.
Fantastic.
He shifts his weight slightly, still holding Twinklesocks like she’s a prize he’s won without trying, and says, far too calmly for someone who’s just been groped by a woman in novelty pyjamas, “Jasper Corbin.”
He even smiles.
Not a full smile, just a smug little curl of the lips, like this is going straight in his mental highlight reel.
I let out a noise. Possibly a laugh. Possibly a small internal implosion. “Right. Miranda. I’m your tenant. Thank you. For... the kitten.”
He glances down at the ginger menace now purring into his sternum like she’s claiming him as her owner. “She’s very... assertive.”
“Not usually,” I lie, managing to retrieve her without incident this time. “She’s just exploring. Territory. Windows. Freedom.”
“Legs,” he adds, eyes flicking to mine. “She seemed fond of licking mine.”
I make a sound that might be a strangled apology and edge backwards, Twinklesocks tucked under one arm like contraband.
“I’ll just—yes. Thank you again. Sorry.”
I turn to flee, but he calls after me, mild as anything: “I wasn’t told there’d be a cat.”
I stop.
Not because I want to. Because guilt—and British social conditioning—physically won’t let me keep walking.
I half-turn, Twinklesocks dangling under my arm. “It’s... um. Two, actually.”
His eyebrows lift, slowly. “Two.”
“Stella said it was fine,” I blurt. “I did ask. She said Jasper… I mean, you…. wouldn’t mind. And she’s the one who showed me round, and she approved the application and everything, so I assumed... well, you know. That she’d... mentioned it.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stands there, lean and far too shirtless for a conversation about tenancy boundaries, while a faint breeze moves through his already infuriatingly perfect hair.
Then, at last, he nods once. “Of course. If Stella said it’s fine...”
Oh no.
That tone. That very specific, deeply sarcastic tone of a man who’s just been overruled by a woman he’s clearly lost battles to before.
I open my mouth. Close it again. Nod, weakly. “Thank you. I’ll, um. Go.”
And this time, he lets me.
Because apparently, I have embarrassed myself quite enough for one morning.
I manage to shut the door behind me without dropping Twinklesocks or collapsing entirely. Just.
From the kitchen, I hear cereal being crunched.
I stumble in, still clutching the kitten like she’s the last shred of my dignity.
SJ looks up from the table the moment I appear. “Did you find her?!”
I nod, holding Twinklesocks aloft. “Caught red-pawed, breaking into someone’s house.”
He gasps. “Whose house?”
“Our landlord’s.”
His eyes go huge. “She got into his house?!”
“She licked his leg.”
There’s a pause.
“She what?”
“It’s not important.”
He swings his legs under the chair, face aglow with awe. “Was he mad?”
“No.”
“Did he shout?”
“No.”
“Did you say sorry?”
“I said sorry multiple times. I was very British about it.”
He peers at me, frowning. “Why are your ears red?”
“Because it’s freezing out there,” I say quickly, brushing him off. “Now finish your breakfast. The driver will be here in twenty minutes.”
He groans dramatically and slumps forward, nearly face-first into his cereal bowl. “Do I have to go?”
“Yes,” I say, pouring boiling water into my mug. “It’s school. Not exile.”
“It feels like exile.”
“You’re going to see your friends. You like your friends.”
“I like some of them.”
I pass him a stern look over the steam rising from the kettle. He picks up his spoon with the weary air of someone being gravely wronged by the national curriculum.
I remove the teabag from my mug and try to ignore the damp chill still clinging to my pyjamas and the ghostly memory of my palm making contact with a stranger’s chest muscle. Repeatedly.
Nope. Not thinking about it.
Driver in twenty minutes. Lunch in SJ’s bag. My sanity somewhere near the back fence with the traumatised shrubbery.
One thing at a time.
The bell over the café door jingles as I step inside. The girls are helping me unpack all the boxes we didn’t manage yesterday but we agreed to meet for a coffee first. Get a caffeine fix in to build up the energy.
All four are already there, of course. They claimed a table by the window. There are mugs and coats and overlapping chatter… I can’t help smiling at my friends when Bri spots me first.
“There she is!” she calls, standing to kiss both my cheeks and nearly knocking over her coffee in the process. “Our favourite Little Hadlow newcomer.”
Amelia’s next, wrapping me in a hug that smells of perfume and croissant. “You look... windswept.”
“That’s generous,” I mutter. “It’s been a morning.”
Fi slides a fresh flat white toward the empty seat. “We assumed as much. You’re thirty minutes late and you haven’t rage-texted once.”
Lizzie grins from across the table. “Do we need trickery or are you going to tell us everything voluntarily?”
I take the seat, wrap my hands around the mug, and exhale.
“Let me defrost first,” I say. “Then you can interrogate me all you like.”
I take a sip of the flat white, gloriously hot, mercifully strong, and hold the cup a moment longer than necessary.
“Twinklesocks escaped,” I say flatly.
Fi lowers her mug. “Already?”
“Did you find her?” Lizzie asks.
“Yes.”
“Where?” Bri leans in.
“Next door.” I take another sip. “The landlord had his patio doors open. She invaded his kitchen.”
Four mouths fall open.
Amelia blinks. “So you followed her into his kitchen?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t know she was in his kitchen. I was crawling through the hedges. In the garden. Like a mad woman.”
They’re already smiling.
“In what?” Bri asks, far too gleefully.
I close my eyes. “A winter coat. Reindeer pyjamas, and… slippers.”
Fi makes a strangled noise into her coffee. Lizzie actually chokes.
Amelia claps her hands once. “Oh, this is already better than I hoped.”
I take another sip. “Has any one of you actually met Jasper?”
Amelia raises a brow. “I have.”
That grin. The slow, smug kind that sets off alarm bells around the table.
Bri narrows her eyes. “What was that look?”
Lizzie leans in. “Did you forget to mention the landlord is hot? He rushed past so quickly on Bonfire night, I couldn’t see.”
Amelia just sips her cappuccino, not even pretending to be innocent.
Fi turns to me. “Miranda. How hot are we talking?”
I set my mug down with a sigh. “He is... hot as lava.”
There’s a squeal from Bri. Lizzie punches the table.
“Details!” Fi demands.
“Dark hair, messy in a good way. Golden streaks in it like he’s been permanently backlit. Eyes that make you forget your name. Stubble. Muscles.”
All four are now staring at me like I’ve been holding out state secrets.
“And he was shirtless,” I add.
Bri grabs my wrist like we’re about to take flight. “Please tell me you have a photo.”
“Oh absolutely,” I say, deadpan. “Because patting his pec wasn’t mortifying enough, I obviously followed it up by asking if he could pose like a thirst trap against the fridge.”
Amelia nearly spills her cappuccino. “Wait. You did what?”
I drop my head onto the table with a quiet thunk. “I patted his pec.”
“You patted it?” Fi echoes.
“Not like I was checking ripeness,” I mumble. “It was accidental. Reflexive. Kitten confusion.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence—and then Lizzie makes a noise like a dying kettle.
“Fucking hell,” Bri whispers, clutching her chest like she’s been personally blessed. “You groped the landlord’s actual chest?”
“I didn’t mean to! I was reaching for Twinklesocks and miscalculated.”
“You confused tense muscle with a furry, little kitten?” Fi asks mildly.
I lift my head just enough to glare at her. “I panicked. My hand betrayed me. I have no defence except... maybe I’m becoming a hormonal cliché.”
Amelia leans across the table, beaming. “We love this for you.”
“I don’t,” I mutter. “I want to crawl back into my reindeer pyjamas and start again.”
Amelia folds her arms, giving me that look. “Maybe it’s time.”
I frown. “Time for what?”
“To move on.”
I blink. “It’s been less than a month since the divorce was final.”
“Yes, but you’ve been separated since summer,” Fi points out, ever the rational assassin.
“And before that,” Lizzie adds, picking up her croissant like a microphone, “when was the last time you and Sim-Sim even shagged?”
I nearly inhale my flat white.
“Excuse me?!”
“Serious question,” she says, unapologetic. “Give us a ballpark.”
“I’m not ballparking my sex life in a public café.”
Bri grins. “So that long, then.”
“I’m just saying,” Amelia says gently, “you’re allowed to notice an attractive man. You’re divorced, not dead.”
“I didn’t notice him,” I lie.
“You patted his chest.”
“That was cat-related.”
“Sure it was.”
Fi lifts her mug. “To fresh starts.”
I groan into my hands. “To public humiliation.”