Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
O Holy Shite
Jasper
“Ican help you.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
They bypass my brain entirely, leap straight out of my mouth, and hang there in the silence like I’ve offered to take my shirt off and solve all her problems with a well-placed thrust.
She gasps.
Actually gasps. Eyes wide. Gripping that bloody vibrator like it’s a weapon and I’m the intruder.
Which, in fairness, I might be.
I hold up both hands. “Not like that.”
She stares. No blinking. Possibly no breathing.
But I can’t walk it back now. And I meant it. The second she stood there, flushed and flustered and practically vibrating with frustration, I just… wanted to help. Instinct, maybe. Or habit. Or something else I’m not ready to name.
So I keep going. Gently. Carefully.
“You’re wound up like a wind-up toy, Miranda. Anyone with eyes can see it. Shoulders to your ears. Jaw locked. No wonder nothing’s working. You’re carrying everything—and holding it so tight there’s no space left for anything else.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t bolt either. Just looks at me like I’ve stepped off a spaceship.
“I spent a summer in Bali,” I say. “After I sold my company and the money came in. Didn’t know what to do with myself, so I learned from a relaxation genius. Proper massage training. Not the sleazy kind. Real stuff. Therapy without expectations.”
A pause. Just long enough.
“I could help you relax. That’s all. Platonic. Therapeutic, if you like.”
I wait.
Because it’s her call now.
But she still hasn’t run.
She looks torn.
Her eyes drop to the floor, then flick back up to my face, like she’s checking whether I’m joking or dangerous or both. She opens her mouth. Closes it.
For a moment, I think she’s going to say yes.
And then—quietly, with a small apologetic smile—she says, “Maybe just the cat-proofing of the flat… for now.”
I nod. Not disappointed. Maybe even relieved. “Of course.”
I clear my throat and make my voice as calm and neutral as I can. “If you ever change your mind, the offer’s there. No pressure. No questions. No expectations. All professional.”
She nods quickly, tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
I glance towards the front door. “Might be easiest to lock the kittens in the bathroom while I install the gate. Last thing I need is Thor wedging himself under a skirting board or launching himself into the hedge mid-build.”
“Right,” she says, grateful for the shift in topic. “Good idea.”
She scoops up Twinklesocks, who immediately starts wailing in protest, full drama. Thor trots along behind them as if he knows something suspicious is happening.
I hear the bathroom door click shut, followed by the tap running. I give her the privacy. Start unpacking the box. Lining up the screws. Measuring the frame. Letting the shift to work mode settle me again.
It helps. Mostly.
Still—as I drill the first guide holes into the frame, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve gone too far.
She was already rattled, barely holding herself together, and I just… offered my hands. Not like that, but still. There’s a line between helping and overstepping. I’m not entirely sure I didn’t cross it.
A half an hour later, the retractable gate clicks into place with satisfying ease. The kittens won’t be flinging themselves into the driveway anytime soon.
I’m just wiping down the last bit of dust when I hear her approach. She’s barefoot now, and the sound of her steps on the floorboards is soft, tentative.
I look up.
She’s holding a mug. Steam curls from the top. She holds it out.
“Tea,” she says. “Builder’s strength. Figured you’d earned it.”
I take it with a nod. “Thanks.”
She leans against the wall, arms crossed—casual, but not quite relaxed.
Then, without looking at me, she says, “If I were interested—not saying I am—what would it entail?”
She delivers it like she’s asking about garden waste collection.
I take a sip of tea. Let the question hang for a second, just to make sure it’s real.
Then I look at her. “In this context?”
She nods. “Mmhmm.”
I take another sip of tea, mostly to buy a second. Because this—this is where I should tread carefully.
It was easy to offer. To say purely platonic, no expectations, just help. But now that she’s actually asking? Now that the idea is hovering between us like static?
It feels a lot less platonic.
“I’d keep it professional,” I say, voice even. “Massage table. Fully covered. Light pressure at first, just to get your body used to being touched without flinching. Breathing cues. Stretching. Nothing invasive.”
She glances up at that. I hold her gaze, steady.
“You’d be in control. At any point, if something didn’t feel right, it stops. You say when. I’d check in, keep everything clear. Boundaries defined.”
She nods again, slower this time. Still listening. Still deciding.
I take another sip of tea to hide the way my jaw tightens.
Because the truth is, this is probably a bad idea.
I’ve massaged plenty of people when I was in Bali, even a few dates when I was back in the UK. And once Geoff when he pulled a muscle in his back playing rugby. There isn’t anything in it. It is just a massage. I can offer that to anyone.
But Miranda isn’t just anyone.
And the idea of laying my hands on her—on that soft curve of her lower back, the tension tucked into her shoulders, the line of her neck when she tips her head back—it already has my pulse speeding up.
I could do it. Of course I could.
But I’m not sure I’d be able to do it without wanting.
And wanting is dangerous.
Especially when she’s lonely. Raw.
I take a breath. Steady myself.
“If you were interested,” I say, matching her tone, “it would be a simple back massage. Working out the knots… the tension. Just a way to let your body remember how to relax. That’s all.”
That’s the lie I tell myself.
That’s the bit I pretend I’d be able to stick to.
She hums, like she’s thinking it over—but I already know she’s not going to say yes.
Sure enough, after a beat she straightens from the wall and says, “Right. Thanks. That was just me being nosy, anyway. I’m not really… considering it.”
Her voice is casual. Breezy (maybe a bit too breezy). She waves a hand, like she’s brushing away the entire conversation, then disappears back into the flat before I can read her expression properly.
I nod to the empty hallway like an idiot.
“Right.”
I stare at the tea for a second, then set it down on the windowsill and go back to the toolbox. Still a few screws to tighten, and then on to fencing in the patio. Just something to put my hands on that isn’t her.
I meant what I said.
And I would’ve kept it professional.
But part of me is relieved she said no.
Because I’m not entirely sure I’d have managed it.
The village green’s been transformed into a festive fever dream.
Twinkly lights everywhere, children off their heads on sugar and seasonal adrenaline, and at least three men dressed as Father Christmas wandering around with wildly varying beard quality.
Someone’s playing Christmas songs through a too-small speaker that keeps skipping, and the mulled wine stand smells aggressively like cloves and regret.
Lucy is clinging to my hand with the determination of a child who has spotted a bouncy castle, a pony, and possibly the actual meaning of life.
She stops dead in front of a stall selling ornaments shaped like penguins in various professions—a fireman, a ballerina, one who appears to be baking.
“Uncle Jasper!” she gasps, tugging on my coat. “LOOK. The penguins are doing jobs!”
“So they are.”
“I didn’t know penguins worked! Do they have tiny lunchboxes?”
“Almost definitely,” I say. “And a penguin staff room with fish biscuits and a very strict snack rota.”
She stares at the penguins for a moment, then points to the ballerina one. “That one’s called Lorna. She’s in charge of the Christmas disco.”
“Well, obviously. Look at that tutu. That’s a penguin who knows how to party.”
We move along, weaving between stalls selling handmade fudge, glittery candles, and several types of chutney that may or may not be legal.
Lucy skips beside me, cheeks pink, eyes wide, her bobble hat starting to do a slow spin toward the back of her head.
“So far,” she says, very seriously, “I’ve asked Father Christmas for the big sparkly paints, the crown-making kit from the telly, a jewellery box that sings, and the magic scissors that can cut zig-zags.”
“All sensible, useful items.”
She nods. “And the Princess Aurora dress with the real swishy skirt. Not the one with the scratchy bits.”
“Important distinction.”
“Oh! And the rainbow pencils that smell like strawberries. But only if he’s not too busy.”
I glance down. “You reckon he’s got room for all that?”
She shrugs. “If he doesn’t, he can ask the reindeers to help.”
“Delegation. I respect it.”
We continue on, dodging a child with a candy cane twice his own size and a woman loudly describing a mince pie as “life-changing”. A brass band strikes up We Wish You a Merry Christmas and it feels like we are smack bang in the centre of some Christmas special.
Lucy tugs my sleeve again.
“Uncle Jasper?”
“Mm?”
“If I ask Father Christmas for something really big... like... a castle… or a pony—”
“Ambitious.”
“Do you think he’ll still bring it?”
I crouch slightly, straightening the hat that’s now resting halfway down the back of her neck.
“I think it’s okay to ask,” I say. “But sometimes Father Christmas has so many gifts to bring, he might have to cut some things off the list. So even if you don’t get everything, you’ll still get something brilliant.
Because you’ve been excellent this year. ”
She considers this. “I did do good cutting at school. And I only cried that one time when we had peas.”
“Strong track record.”
She beams. “Okay. I’ll say the castle is a bonus wish. And the pony’s just in case he’s got one spare.”
“Very reasonable.”