Chapter 11 Deck the Halls （with Fairy Lights）
Chapter eleven
Deck the Halls (with Fairy Lights)
Jasper
It’s the third time this week I’ve been to Callum’s.
I tell myself that’s reasonable. He asked for my opinion on a project he’s looking at—something to do with a Japanese investor and expansion timelines. We’re talking strategy, not making social calls. It’s work. Or close enough.
Still, I pause before ringing the doorbell. Not because I’ve got doubts about the meeting. I just... hesitate. Like my subconscious is trying to point something out that I’m not in the mood to hear.
Stella opens the door when I finally ring the bell. “You again,” she says, stepping aside.
“I’m giving Callum free consultancy,” I mutter. “He should be grateful.”
She grins. “Oh, he is. He has been the other two times you were here this week.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re lurking,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. She gestures down the hall. “He’s just finishing up a call. You can go through.”
I nod and step inside.
It’s warm, smells faintly of mulled spice and pine—and then I spot her.
Miranda.
Up a ladder in the living room, half-balanced on the third step, stretching up to pin fairy lights along the curtain rail. She’s got one knee slightly bent, arms reaching, and her jumper has ridden up just enough to reveal a thin strip of pale skin and the faint curve of her waist.
She’s wearing a pencil skirt. Black. High-waisted. The sort of thing most people don’t wear for putting up Christmas decorations, but if it were for me, this is the only thing she would ever wear. It hugs her hips, the shape of her arse carved out in perfect silhouette. Unapologetic. Classic.
My brain stalls for a second.
I look away.
Then immediately look back.
It’s like being hit by something you didn’t see coming—except you did, and you walked right into it anyway.
She mutters something to herself, wrangling a tangled section of wire with an expression of fierce concentration.
I clear my throat. “Need a hand or are you winning?”
She startles slightly, glancing down. Her eyes widen just a fraction. “Jasper. God. You’re very... quiet.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Her voice is casual, but her hand misses the next loop of lights completely. She fumbles, then overcorrects, and the cable knocks against the window frame with a faint clatter. Her face flushes. Not full crimson, but enough to notice.
Before either of us can say something ill-advised, Stella saunters in, holding a mug in each hand and wearing that expression that says she’s just a little too observant for anyone’s comfort.
“Well,” she says, grinning, “you remember where the office is, don’t you? Or were you hoping to supervise the lighting?”
I keep my tone neutral. “Just making sure Christmas decorations are in the job spec.”
Stella’s smirk doesn’t budge. “I don’t think Miranda needs you to fight her battles.”
“Definitely not,” Miranda says quickly. Too quickly.
I glance up—she’s trying for cool and snarky, but her cheeks are still pink. Her fingers twitch as she reaches to anchor the lights again.
I raise both hands and take a deliberate step back. “Fair enough. No interfering.”
Stella leans against the doorframe, clearly enjoying herself. “Go down the corridor, back of the building—”
I catch myself glancing again then shut it down. Fast, before I show some physical signs on how much Miranda gets under my skin.
“Right,” I say. “Office.”
I turn on my heel and head down the corridor before I can embarrass myself or say something even more revealing.
Callum’s waiting when I walk in. Arms folded, grinning because he can add one and one together to work out why there was a delay between the doorbell going and me sauntering into his office.
He doesn’t even bother with a hello.
“You know we didn’t need this meeting today.”
I head for the chair nearest the desk and sit down with more indifference than I feel. “I thought we said we’d firm up the investor notes before you send them back.”
“We firmed them up on Monday.” He tilts his glass. “And again on Wednesday.”
I shrug. “No harm in a third pass.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Depends who you’re passing.”
I level him a look, but he’s already smirking like a man far too pleased with himself.
“Look,” he says, dropping into his seat across from me. “You’re welcome to hang around. I can ask Miranda for some fresh coffee, since that’s clearly what’s keeping your calendar open.”
I don’t rise to it. I’ve known Callum too long, and if I show even the smallest crack, he’ll widen it with both hands.
“Do you want to go over the numbers or not?” I ask, keeping my tone dry.
He grins. “Sure. But if you think I haven’t noticed the fact you’re suddenly very available for in-person chats, you’re kidding yourself.”
I give him nothing.
“I am doing this all for free, mate. I could be charging you an arm and a leg!” I remind him that I am only here to give him a helping hand.
Callum laughs. “Charge what you like, mate. But if you’re going to orbit the house like a hungry crow every few days, at least be honest with me.”
“It is about the work.”
“Sure it is.”
I glance at the notebook I brought, and flip it open just to give my hands something to do. “I don’t have time to orbit anyone.”
He tilts his head. “Right. And all these drop-ins—just good business?”
“Checking progress.”
“You know there’s email, right?”
I give him a long look.
He gives me one right back.
Eventually, he shrugs, lifts his tablet and taps it to life. “Fine. Investor notes. Round three. Let’s get on with it, before Miranda leaves and you come up with a reason to ‘check in’ again tomorrow.”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m not entirely sure I wouldn’t.
We work in relative silence for the next half hour—or at least, Callum works. I contribute just enough to keep up the illusion that I’m entirely focused on the spreadsheet and not, say, mentally tracking the sound of movement from the living room.
At one point, there's a faint rustle and a low laugh from Miranda—something quick and off-hand, followed by Stella saying something I can’t quite catch.
Callum glances up at me. I don’t look back.
Exactly thirty-two minutes in, the door creaks open and Stella steps in without knocking. The look on her face is pure mischief disguised as helpful admin.
“Just letting you know,” she says lightly, “Miranda’s heading off now.”
The pause that follows isn’t long, but it’s noticeable. Long enough for me to register it.
Callum closes his laptop with theatrical slowness. Then looks at me. Stella looks at me. Like we’ve hit the climax of a play I didn’t agree to star in.
Callum leans forward, elbows on the desk, expression unreadable except for the faint glint of amusement in his eyes.
“If you’re planning to offer her a lift,” he says casually, “we can call it there.”
I don’t blink. Just shift slightly in my seat and glance at the clock on the wall, as if I’m only now realising the time.
“I should go anyway,” I say, stretching like this has all gone to plan. “My brothers are coming over for dinner.”
Callum lets out a laugh. “You want a BAFTA for that performance or are you saving it for something with more dramatic range?”
Stella smacks him lightly on the arm. “Be nice.”
“Why? That lie had a wobble in the second act.”
I ignore both of them, tugging on my coat and grabbing my notebook. “Right. Well. Glad we cleared that up.”
“Crystal,” Callum says, not bothering to hide the grin. “Enjoy dinner with the brothers.”
I walk out before either of them can keep going—and before I say something defensive that confirms everything they’re already thinking.
In the hall, Miranda’s just zipping up her coat. She looks up, a bit surprised. “Oh. You’re done?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thought I’d catch you before you left.”
She tilts her head slightly. Waiting.
I clear my throat. “Do you want a lift?”
Her eyebrows twitch upward. “Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“Of course,” I say, cutting her off before she can wriggle out of it. “We’re heading the same way. And it looks like rain again.”
She glances toward the window, as if to confirm it—grey sky, heavy clouds, that thick pressure in the air that always seems to come just before it really lets loose. She nods once, fast. “Okay. Thanks.”
Outside, the wind’s picked up. Damp and cold. I unlock the car, open the passenger door for her without saying anything. She gives me a brief look—unreadable—before climbing in. I round the front and slide in beside her.
The drive is quiet. Not awkward, exactly. Just... still.
She fiddles with the strap of her bag. I keep my eyes on the road but I am distracted. The heater hums gently, cutting through the chill. I could say something—about the meeting, about the lights she was putting up, about anything—but I don’t. Neither does she.
She shifts in her seat once, then again. Crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. I notice every little move. I can’t help it.
As we pull onto our road, she finally speaks. Voice soft, almost like she doesn’t want to break the air between us.
“Thanks for the lift.”
I nod. “Anytime.”
And I mean it. Probably more than I should.
I pull into the drive and kill the engine. She’s already halfway out of the car before I’ve even unclipped my seatbelt, making a beeline for the flat with that slightly hunched, I-am-casual-but-escaping energy she does when she’s not quite sure what to do with me.
I follow at a slower pace, locking the car behind me, hands shoved in my pockets. The air’s sharp, damp with the threat of rain. We’re both heading the same way—just with different doors waiting at the end.
She reaches hers first.
And then pauses.
Bends down. Fiddles with something. I squint—it’s a baking tray. A large, slightly dented one. She’s bracing it along the bottom of the door like she’s about to shield herself from a domestic explosion.
I slow.
“What are you doing?”
She straightens, startled. “Oh. Uh… kitten containment.”
I blink.
She lifts the tray sheepishly. “The kittens have worked out how to jailbreak. If I don’t block the gap at the bottom of the door, they do this weird little pincer move and shoot out like furry missiles.”
I glance at the door. Then the tray. Then her.
“You’re building a metal barricade.”
“It works,” she says defensively. “Usually.”
I nod. “Inventive. I’m impressed.”
“I’m surviving,” she mutters, crouching to reposition the tray. “Barely.”
“You could’ve just asked for help, you know.”
She glances up, surprised. “With the kittens?”
I nod, stepping closer, hands still in my coat pockets. “I could look into something. A proper barrier or… whatever would stop the Great Escape.”
She gives a quiet laugh. “It’s not really something you should have to worry about. As a landlord.”
The word lands awkwardly between us. Precise. Distant.
She straightens, brushing a curl out of her face. “Anyway—thanks again. For the lift.”
Then she opens the door just a crack, tray still braced in one hand. “No escaping,” she mutters firmly, addressing the chaos on the other side like a worn-out nanny.
I hear a tiny meow, a shuffle of paws, and then she slips inside, guiding the kittens back with a gentle nudge of the baking tray. The door shuts quickly behind her with a soft click.
Silence.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the now-closed door.
She’s right, of course.
Other landlords wouldn’t let her have pets at all. Especially not indoor kittens with a desire to roam free. They’d worry about scratched floors and lost deposits and carpets that smell faintly of cat biscuits.
But I’m not just any landlord.
And she’s not just a tenant.