Chapter 10 Walking in a Kitten Wonderland
Chapter ten
Walking in a Kitten Wonderland
Miranda
I’m five minutes early, which is very unlike me.
Normally I operate on a precise rhythm of just in time, mildly flustered, apologetically charming.
But I couldn’t sit in the flat any longer pretending not to stare at the clock.
So here I am, standing outside a converted villa with the kind of front door that screams “money, but make it rustic.”
It’s similar to Jasper’s, only a different shade of expensive, and without an annexe clinging to the side like a witch’s wart.
That’s the thing no one warns you about when you flee London for a fresh start in a countryside village—half the people here aren’t locals at all. They’re ex-city dwellers with perfect teeth and muddy Land Rovers, hiding their burnt-out ambition under soft knits and sourdough starters.
I knock.
Stella answers like she’s been standing there waiting. Her hair’s up, her outfit casual in a way that only expensive jeans and confidence can pull off. She greets me with a warm smile that somehow manages to be both matey and managerial.
“Come in, come in,” she says, stepping aside. “Callum’s just finishing up a call, but I’ll take you through.”
The house smells like expensive candles and good decisions. She leads me through a corridor of clean lines and quiet wealth, and I do my best not to imagine the state of my own hallway—which currently features a toppled cat tower and an empty cereal bowl.
We reach a door at the back of the house, slightly ajar. Stella knocks once, then pushes it open.
Callum is standing behind a desk that would not look out of place in a Bond villain’s lair. He’s tall. Not Jasper-tall, but still over six foot. Tattoos creep out from the sleeves of his T-shirt… black ink and muscle, just enough to make any woman swoon.
He looks up and offers a nod and a smile.
“Hi. Miranda, right?”
His voice is warm. Polite. There’s a glint in his eyes; not flirtatious exactly, but not entirely neutral either. Like he knows something funny about the situation but isn’t ready to share it yet.
“That’s me,” I say, offering a hand. He takes it briefly and then steps back.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says to Stella. “You’ve got the better interview technique anyway.”
He starts to move past, but not before turning back and, with absolute casual confidence, drops a kiss on Stella’s lips. An actual kiss. On the mouth. Not long. Not dramatic. But definitely... intimate.
Stella swats him on the arm. “Go away. Let me do the serious part.”
He grins—that grin you only get from someone deeply in love—and disappears from the office.
Stella shuts the door and turns back to me, a faint flush on her cheeks. “We do normally try to keep it professional.” Her smile is wry, almost apologetic, before she gestures to the chair. “Right, shall we?”
I nod, still not quite sure what dimension I’ve stepped into, but quietly grateful that no one’s asked me to define my five-year plan yet.
The walk home is shorter than I remember, mostly because I’m floating.
I got the job.
Well, Stella’s exact words were, “We’d love to have you, if you’re happy with the hours and pay,” which I’m choosing to interpret as a job offer and not a polite hallucination brought on by the smell of Stella’s fancy fig-scented diffuser.
The whole thing felt oddly easy. Like slipping on a jacket you thought you’d outgrown, only to realise it still fits. Stella and I went on like a house on fire. I can see us become friends, not just colleagues.
Yes, it’s admin. And yes, it’s not what I trained for. But it’s something. It’s mine. And it makes me feel in control of my life.
I’m halfway up the path when I catch myself grinning. Not just smiling: a proper toothpaste advert grin.
Maybe I’ve got this. Maybe things are turning.
I open the front door and both kittens shoot out like they’ve been fired from a cannon.
“Oi!”
Thor bolts left, a blur of grey stripes running towards the bushes. Twinklesocks rockets right, tail high and ginger fur bristling with delight.
I don’t even hesitate—I yank the door shut again and dash after Thor, my coat flapping, boots thudding against the path.
I catch him under a bush three doors down, where he’s attempting to fight a damp leaf. I scoop him up and tuck him against my chest, huffing. “You are going to be the death of me.”
He meows like I’ve insulted his honour.
I march back, unlock the door one-handed and shove him inside. He promptly flops down and begins cleaning his shoulder like he’s the injured party.
“Drama queen,” I mutter, then spin around.
Twinklesocks is nowhere in sight.
My stomach drops.
Please not Jasper’s house. Please not Jasper’s house again!
I head off in the direction she ran, scanning the hedges, trying not to think about the last time she invited herself into his kitchen like a feline home invader.
And of course, because the universe enjoys a bit of comedy timing, that’s exactly when the sky decides to open.
Fat drops. Cold. Immediate.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, pulling my coat tighter and picking up the pace.
I scour the verges, poke around bushes, even peer into the bin area behind the corner shop like a woman on the verge of a very specific type of breakdown. No sign of her. I whisper her name, then hiss it, then mutter increasingly desperate threats under my breath.
Not a whisker.
By the time I admit defeat, I’m soaked. Hair plastered to my face. Socks damp. Coat doing its best but losing the battle. I’m freezing, sniffling, and one sharp breath away from crying in public—which I refuse to do, mostly on principle.
I trudge home, blinking away tears and trying to convince myself she’ll come back. Cats do. That’s what everyone says. They have a good sense of direction. And apparently no sense of guilt, the furry little sociopaths.
I turn the corner onto my drive just in time to see headlights sweep across the front of the house.
Jasper’s car pulls in behind me, slow and quiet.
Of course.
Of course he’d come home just in time to witness the full damp tragedy of my existence.
He parks. Steps out. Opens an umbrella and looks over at me.
We just stare at each other for a moment. Him, dry and calm. Me, drenched and vibrating with barely restrained emotion, looking like I’ve crawled out of a lake to deliver a warning about water safety.
I try to say something—anything—but my throat’s too tight.
And then, from the left—the left, where I swear she did not run—a soggy streak of ginger fur bolts out of the bushes and makes a beeline for him.
“Twinklesocks!” I breathe, stunned.
She skids to a stop at his feet, tail up, fur wet, looking delighted with herself. He crouches smoothly and scoops her up with one hand. She immediately nestles in like he’s her long-lost lover and this is all perfectly normal.
I blink at them. At her. At the wrong direction.
“I thought she ran right,” I say, too tired to filter myself.
Jasper shrugs under the umbrella, stroking her damp head with his thumb. “Maybe she changed her mind.”
I let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The rain trickles down my neck, and I suddenly feel the full weight of it—the wet, the worry, the humiliation of the whole chase. He straightens up, still holding her, and gives me a look I can’t quite read.
Something steady. Something that makes my skin feel too tight under my coat.
I step forward, arms outstretched. “I’ll—erm—take her.”
Twinklesocks promptly tucks herself deeper into his chest and lets out a tiny, manipulative purr.
“Oh, don’t start,” I mutter to her.
Jasper doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow slightly as he gently transfers her into my arms. She makes a token protest noise. One of her paws stays stretched in his direction like she’s clutching at the love of her short, ridiculous life.
“Traitor,” I whisper into her damp fur.
He offers me the ghost of a smile, umbrella still steady above us, as if this is all perfectly normal and not the climax of a minor Greek tragedy involving kittens and emotional instability.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, cheeks burning. “Really. Sorry about her. And me. The… whole situation.”
“It’s fine,” he says, that same maddeningly smooth tone. “She’s welcome any time.”
I let out an embarrassed little laugh, half-drowned by the rain. “Right. I’ll just… get her inside. Before she develops a full crush and starts bringing you socks.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I freeze.
Oh God.
Oh God!
Did I just imply that he has a crush on me? Because of the socks?
I did, didn’t I.
I meant it as a throwaway joke—about the cat. But now it sounds like I’ve drawn some sort of tragic line between his gift of reindeer socks and the language of kitten courtship, and now he’s going to think I think he’s been flirting with me. With socks. Which… to be fair, I did think.
But he doesn’t know that.
Or at least—he didn’t.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m teasing him or having a breakdown. And honestly, I’m not sure myself.
I panic.
“Anyway, thank you—sorry—I didn’t mean that how it sounded—she’s just really into soft textiles—bye!”
I turn around. I don’t look at him. I don’t even breathe properly until I’ve closed the door behind me and locked it like a person who’s definitely not about to combust from embarrassment.
Inside, I drop Twinklesocks to the floor, peel off my dripping coat, and mutter, “You’re the worst.”
She shakes her damp fur all over the entryway rug and sashays off, smug as you like.
I groan and press my forehead to the door.
I’ve done that awful thing—the thing women are accused of: inventing signals where there weren’t any, turning a perfectly kind gesture into some clumsy narrative about meaning, and now I’ve basically accused him of being into me.
Because of socks.
Fuckity, fuck.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose like I’ve just disarmed a bomb.
Next time I see him, I’m going to have to act completely normal. Just… unbothered and breezy and totally not like I’ve replayed this moment seventeen times and want to move into a cave.
And under no circumstances will I mention knitwear again.