Page 25 of Visions of You

I held the wood up and inspected it, pleased with the four tapering sides of the leg, which came to a blunt end. After placing it on my workbench next to the other three, I lined them up to ensure they were all the same size.

A deep satisfaction filled me at their perfect form.

I attached a new sheet of rough paper to my hand sander and moved to the large rectangular piece of mahogany, resting on two sawhorses in the corner.

The door to the apartment opened and April ducked her head out. She met my gaze and her eyes opened wide.

“Oh!” she said, stepping out. She wore a light-green tank top thatshowed a hint of cleavage and black shorts. “Are you the mysterious wood artisan?”

I ignored the way my heart turned over at the sight of her. She carried Hemingway in her arms, stroking him with one hand as she padded over the floor barefoot.

“Stop,” I called out, and she halted immediately, her brows raised.

I pointed to her feet. “Go put some shoes on. I keep this place clean, but it’s not safe for bare feet. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Her brow smoothed, and she raised one side of her mouth. “Excellent advice. Can I put the cat down first, or does he need shoes too?”

I burst into a grin, and April blinked several times, her eyes slightly glazed for a moment.

“If you can get that cat to do your bidding, more power to you,” I said. “He sure doesn’t do mine.”

She bent over gracefully and deposited Hemingway on the floor, giving me a very nice view of her lacy white bra in the process. Then she spun around and reentered the apartment. She returned moments later wearing flip-flops. “These were the handiest to put on. Are they acceptable, or do I need steel-toed work boots?”

I glanced down at my boots, then eyed her flip-flops and tried not to smile. “I’ll let it slide this time. But trust me, dropping a two-by-four on bare toes is no fun.”

Hemingway sauntered over and sat next to me. April crossed the floor and picked him up again. Her hair was wet from a recent shower, and a heady, exotic scent wafted toward me. I filled my lungs, resisting the urge to bury my face in that thick, golden mane. Hemingway stretched out in her arms and laid his head on her breast.

Lucky cat.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” April said. “Your cat has become a regular. I don’t feed him or anything, but he comes by at least once a day. He seems to like it here.”

Her eyes were a clear, light blue, and my first impression stillheld. I could get lost in them. A smattering of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Very kissable freckles. “Maybe it’s not the Barn he likes.”

She gave me a smile that made my pulse take off. “How did you end up with three six-toed cats, anyway?”

I picked up my sander and moved to the formed piece of wood on the sawhorses. With an even, firm stroke, I slid it down the smooth surface. “Have you noticed that black-and-white picture in the dive shop?”

She cocked her head to the side. “The one of the two men? I’ve seen it. One of them looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him—the guy with the beard.”

I glanced up as I made another pass over the surface. “The guy with the beard is Ernest Hemingway.”

“No shit!” She laughed and it made me grin again. April brought a lot of smiles to my face.

“The other man is my great-grandfather, Charles Markham. He was friends with Hemingway and used to drive to Key West every Friday afternoon. He’d park at Hemingway’s home. They’d walk down Duval Street together to Sloppy Joe’s—among other places—and start drinking. Charles would inevitably get hammered enough that he spent the night there, then drove home on Saturday. In 1936, Hemingway gave my great-grandfather one of his six-toed cats for Christmas. And we’ve kept at least one ever since.”

A delighted smile covered April’s face, making my breath catch in my throat. She held the cat up in front of her face, so they looked eye to eye. “How about that! You’re famous.”

“The oldest cat always takes the name Hemingway. When he or she dies, we bury them in a pet cemetery near the Big House. Then a new cat takes the name.”

She resettled the cat in her arms, then lifted him toward me momentarily. “What was his name originally?”

“Anselmo.”

She scrunched up her nose. “That’s an unusual name for a cat.”

I eased out a deep breath as I resisted the urge to kiss the tip of her nose. “For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes became huge. “Santiago at the dive shop! That was the character fromOld Man and the Sea!”

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