Chapter 8 Away in a Basket
Chapter eight
Away in a Basket
Jasper
There’s the faint sound of voices through the shared wall. Nothing distinct, just the low murmur that says someone’s home.
I grab the basket of bits I’d panic-bought at the big Asda in the next village and head outside. This morning’s mad dash wasn’t retail therapy, it was damage control. All in the noble name of being a good neighbour… or at least a half-decent landlord.
It’s a few steps along the garden path to the annexe. I ring the bell and wait. I’m still not sure what to make of Miranda.
She’d turned up in reindeer pyjamas, slippers, and a panicked crouch like she was mid-espionage. Chaos in human form. But there’d been something else too. Something warm. Feminine. Unexpectedly delightful.
Enticing, if I’m being honest.
The door swings open.
But it’s not her.
It’s a tall, curvy woman I don’t think I’ve seen before. She gives me a slow, deliberate once-over and a grin that says she’s enjoying the view.
“You must be the landlord,” she says.
“Jasper,” I reply. “Jasper Corbin.”
She extends a hand, all confidence and cheek. “Lizzie. Tenant’s friend. Occasional bad influence. Come in.”
Before I can protest, she’s already stepping aside, waving me in like I’m expected—which, based on Miranda’s face when she appears from the back of the flat, I absolutely am not.
Eyes go wide. A flush creeps up her neck.
“Miranda,” Lizzie singsongs. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Miranda blinks at me, startled, guilty, flustered like I’ve caught her smuggling antiques or singing into a hairbrush.
She’s dressed this time. Black dungarees over a stripy top, blonde hair in two neat plaits that make her look both younger and... still somehow dangerously distracting.
She is slightly less chaotic than this morning but still delightfully crazy.
I clear my throat, keeping my tone smooth.
“Apologies for the interruption,” I say, holding up the basket. “Just thought I’d drop this off.”
She watches it with caution.
“I’m not big on flowers,” I go on. “They die in three days and shed everywhere, which feels like a pointed metaphor for most housewarming gifts. So instead—bread and salt. Traditional. For a new home. There’s some kitten food in there, chocolate for your son…”
A beat.
“…and reindeer socks. For you.”
I add a wink.
Miranda turns scarlet.
Behind her, there’s a collective ripple—a sharp inhale, a cough that’s clearly masking a laugh. Amelia leans gently back against the fridge, looking quietly delighted. Lizzie lets out a muffled cackle. One of the others gives a soft whoop. The fourth just beams.
Miranda looks like she’d quite like the floor to swallow her whole. “Thank you,” she mutters, taking the basket as if it’s timed to explode.
I glance at the others, whose expressions range from amused to predatory. From the general atmosphere, it’s safe to assume I’ve been discussed.
“I won’t keep you,” I say, stepping back. “Just wanted to welcome you properly. In daylight, this time.”
I get another quiet “Thanks” from her.
I glance at Amelia, the only one of Miranda’s friends who I have met in the past. “Tell Ben I said hi.”
“Will do,” Amelia replies, grinning far too widely.
“Have a good afternoon, ladies.”
I turn and head back out of the house, and just before the door swings shut behind me, I catch a whisper of Amelia’s voice—
“See? This is why you always answer the door with lip balm and a bra.”
***
The pool’s already buzzing when I walk in—humid air, too much chlorine, and the sharp echo of kids' swimming lessons finishing up.
There are three lanes. The far left has a man floating on his back. The middle one’s a slow crawl of elbows and effort.
Callum’s in the third, the fast lane—our lane—sitting on the edge, flicking water off his fingers.
He notices me as I walk over. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out.”
“Sorry, had to make a delivery,” I say, dropping my towel onto the bench.
I climb in. Cold. Sharp. Good.
We swim ten lengths to warm up and I can feel the familiar enjoyment my muscles get from swimming. I’m not keen on the gym even if I do run on the treadmill quite often. It always feels like a work out, punishment for something. Swimming feels like a reward.
We pause at the deep end, arms hooked over the edge, water lapping quietly around us.
Callum nudges my arm with his elbow. “You met the tenant yet?”
“That was the delivery,” I say. “Had to drop off a gift basket.”
He glances over. “A basket?”
“Mm.”
“What was in it?”
“Bread. Salt. Chocolate for the kid. Kitten food.”
His brow furrows. “That’s... surprisingly thoughtful. For you.”
I shrug. “Felt like something a landlord should do.”
Callum snorts. “The only other time you tried to rent out the flat you welcomed the bloke by telling him the bins go out on a Wednesday and not to feed the foxes.”
I stay quiet.
“So?” he presses.
“There was a moment.”
He raises a brow. Waits.
“This morning. I left the patio doors open after my run. One of the kittens wandered in.”
“She came in after it?”
I shake my head. “No. She was in the garden. Crawling. Wearing a coat and... reindeer pyjamas.”
Callum stares at me. “You’re making this up.”
“I’m really not… I think there was a moment.” I sigh.
He tilts his head. “And this moment… what did it include, exactly?”
I hesitate. “She may have... accidentally patted my chest.”
“Patted?” he asks, biting back a laugh.
“I was shirtless,” I reply, unable to stop myself from grinning.
“Oh mate. What’s she like?”
I rest my forearms on the edge of the pool, staring at the ceiling for a second. “Bit chaotic. Hair everywhere. Talked to the cat. Dressed like she escaped a Christmas panto.”
Callum looks amused. “So... a mess.”
“Sort of.” I pause. “But a warm one. Feminine. Funny. She blushes like it’s a competitive sport.”
“Uh-huh.” His grin spreads. “And you’re already smiling like an idiot.”
I shake my head. “I’m not— It was a weird morning.”
“And the basket was a totally platonic neighbourly gesture?”
“Obviously.”
Callum tilts his head. “I didn’t know she was also bringing a kitten.”
“Kittens,” I correct. “Plural. And I have your girlfriend to thank for it.”
He frowns. “Stella?”
“Yeah. Apparently, she greenlit the whole feline operation. Didn’t mention it to me, of course.”
Callum doesn’t reply right away. Just grins. Slow. Pleased with himself.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
He shrugs, far too casually. “You know what, mate... I think you were right to suspect she’s matchmaking.”
I groan. “Unbelievable.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s a pretty elegant move. Single mum. Cat chaos. Accidental pectoral fondling.”
“I’m going to drown you in this pool.”
“You won’t. Because even all your money won’t save you from prison.”
I push off the wall and swim away.
His laughter follows me all the way to the shallow end.
We swim hard for another half hour—enough to burn off any lingering smugness on Callum’s part. By the time we haul ourselves out, my arms are protesting and my brain’s finally quiet.
Neither of us mentions Miranda again.
The showers are quick, functional. As we’re lacing up trainers, Callum glances over. “You watching the Chelsea–Arsenal game on Saturday?”
“Was planning to. At home.”
He grins. “Don’t. I got offered a box.”
I look up. “Since when do you get a VIP box?”
“One of the suppliers. Sweeteners. Thought I’d bring some of the lads from the village team. You in?”
I nod. “Yeah. Sounds decent.”
“You can even wear that tragic old Chelsea shirt you pretend isn’t cursed.”
“Only if you promise not to shout tactical advice to the gaffer.”
“No promises.”
Just as we’re heading out to the car park, Callum’s phone rings.
He checks the screen and answers with a big grin. “What can I do for you, my love?”
We keep walking.
A pause.
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
We reach the row of parked cars, steam still rising off us in the cold. He unlocks his with a beep.
“Sure. Yes. Great. Love you.”
He hangs up and shoots me a smirk.
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that look for?”
“Looks like I’ll get to judge for myself what this Miranda’s really like.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
He pops his boot open to place his bag in it. “Stella remembered Miranda’s looking for work. I’ve got a project coming up, and I need Stella fully focused—so we figured we could use the extra admin help.”
“We.”
He shrugs. “Stella’s idea, technically. Interview’s tomorrow.”
I just stand there.
A bead of water drips off my hair and lands on my collarbone.
“This has nothing to do with me,” I say flatly.
Callum just laughs, slamming his boot shut. “If you say so.”
“She’ll be working for you.”
“Yep. While Stella runs the project.”
“Exactly,” I say, pulling open my door. “So good luck to you both.”
Callum leans against his car, arms folded. “You do remember she’ll be there when you drop by, right?”
“I’ve no plans to drop by.”
He looks personally offended. “You promised you’d look over the stuff for the FCDO project.”
I wave a hand. “Not an issue. I can be civil.”
Callum raises an eyebrow. “Because you don’t fancy her?”
I give him a flat look. “I never said I fancied her. I don’t.”
“Right,” he says slowly, like he’s humouring a pensioner who insists their cat can speak fluent French. “She’s not your type.”
“She’s not,” I snap, a little too fast.
He holds up both hands. “Sure. You only had a moment… You never have moments with women. You have dates, hook ups. But no moments.”
“I go for calm. Predictable.”
“You once dated a woman who brought an iguana to brunch.”
I point at him. “That was once. And the iguana was named Nigel.”
He smirks. “You remember the lizard’s name but not hers?”
I glare at him, shut the door, and start the engine.
As I pull out, I can still see him laughing in the rear-view mirror.
Smug bastard.