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Mama said this would happen, but it’s much too early to make any more life-altering decisions. I’m here for a reason. And with kitten season barreling toward us, I can’t lose focus on my mission.
Island cats need love too. They need shelter and food, and more than anything, they need to be trapped and fixed before they keep creating more babies that will eventually suffer the same fate. This is my purpose, and as far as I’m concerned, everything else takes a backseat.
Every morning I wake up just after sunrise, slide out of bed, and search the house for my new army of kitties. Jada, Simon, and Sadie pad across my quilt, stretching and readjusting their positions in bed. Luna and Sidney remain curled, dead asleep in their oversized bed by the bedroom door.
My original crew already knows the routine. Foster cats get fed first. They’re the ones who suffer from food insecurity, having spent most of their lives in starvation mode, getting by with scraps on the streets. They need to know their trust in me comes with a steady stream of nutritious food, warm beds, clean litter boxes, toys to stave off boredom, and treats for good behavior.
I run a tight ship and need to project an air of confidence and courageous leadership.
“Babies!” I fall to my knees and spread my arms, crawling forward to pet chins and scratch offered bellies. Prunella, the frightened black cat who wandered onto my property my first night here, and Buster, my treasured Calico boy, stroll toward me first, purring and meowing enthusiastically. They’re both adjusting so much better than I expected. Tender loving care makes a world of difference.
“Breakfast time!” Having parceled out some morning love, I rise to my feet and clap my hands, inviting my new friends to join me. There are presently ten cats, including my original five, living at Grandma Jane’s Cat Colony, also known as my home. But I can welcome many more once I finish building my deluxe cat shed with an attached catio. There’s so much work to do and not enough hours in the day to get things done.
I can’t get ahead of myself or lead with my heart. It’s important to be prepared to care for my rescues. As much as I’d love to run around this island, scooping cats left and right, I have to consider providing proper shelter, accumulating vet bills, and ensure I have the bandwidth to give them the attention they need. With enough patience and socialization, these former strays will come around and eventually be ready for their own home. But that takes time and a ton of work.
An hour later, I've showered, dressed, and devoured a hearty bowl of cereal for breakfast. I can’t let the day get away from me. My contractor, Robby, is driving in from Key Largo with his crew to finish work on the new attachment early tomorrow morning and I promised to stick around in case they need last-minute directions on design. Since tomorrow’s a loss, I'll have to finish my week’s errands today. They’re nearly done, and the sooner I finish, the faster I can get back to trapping more cats.
I crouch to double-tie my sneakers. There’s still enough time for a run on the beach. I try to start every morning with some exercise to clear my head before heading into town to grab a bite. Last week, I ordered a bolt of waterproof fabric and received a message yesterday afternoon that it finally arrived. Thank goodness I remembered to pack Grandma Jane’s sewing machine. I’m not a great seamstress and certainly can’t make my own clothes, but cat beds are simple enough to handle.
It’s a quick trek to my favorite strip of shoreline. I don’t live by the water. Although a good portion of the island is protected by the candy cane shape, hurricanes blow through the Caribbean every year, and I didn’t want to take any chances evacuating my cats every time one came through.
It’s a cool day. The sun is bright, but the fresh breeze in the air makes it easier to run. I’ve avoided this strip of land and stuck to jogging through town the last few days, but nothing beats listening to the crashing ocean waves and the cackle of seagulls. It’s a perfect way to clear your head. Unfortunately, that’s not happening for me today, and it’s beginning to grate on my nerves. I hate distractions. I wish I could stay focused on my long to-do list, not on the man currently jogging twenty feet behind.
It’s Felix, the hot guy who helped me catch my Baxter last week.
He’s why I haven’t returned to the shore, fearing I’d seen him again and embarrass myself with corny conversation.
It’s a small island with a tiny population. Everyone knows everyone, and people talk. They say he’s a recluse. He’s a writer and prefers to spend most of his days indoors churning out his craft. That’s understandable. I’m a homebody and never have much interest in mingling for long periods. My cats keep me company.
Frustrated by his presence, I pick up speed and hope to shake him off. I hop over jagged rock, circumvent waves and bounce over sidling crabs. Nothing works. He keeps the same distance but matches my pace. My mind wanders as my feet pound the wet sand. Why is he here? Is it a coincidence? What on earth does this man want?
We’re on an isolated stretch of land. Doesn’t he know how terrifying this is for a woman alone?
I shake my head, growling under my breath as I grunt through my elevated speed. My heart pounds in my ears. Sweat drips from my pores and flies off my skin. My breath labors and I pant loudly, hoping my unladylike ways will make him veer in a different direction, but he keeps the course, gaining enough traction to appear next to me and shout, “Look out!”
I don’t know what I hit. One second, I’m airborne, and the next, I’m lying flat on my back, submerged in seawater. A pair of hands slip beneath me and carry me out, cradling me gently as their owner marches onto the sand and places me on a dry patch of ground.
Felix tears the shirt off his back and hands it to me. He plucks algae from my soaked hair and chuckles. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not. I’m mortified.”
6
Ican’t believe I’m doing this. If someone narrated my daily activities for the past week, I’d say the story was asinine and too idiotic to be considered for publication. But this is who I’ve become, and I can either embrace it or spend the rest of my life alone and pining for the weirdest girl I’ve ever met.
Five days have passed since I met Miss Harlow Jane, and I haven’t gotten her out of my mind. It’s unfathomable that I’d be attracted to someone like her. She’s not my type. At least, she’s not the type I always envisioned for myself. I’m accustomed to New York socialites, well-educated, well-mannered women like my mother who dress to the nines on every occasion and wouldn’t be caught dead crawling on their bellies in hot sand to rescue a cat.
What have I been missing my whole life?
Watching Harlow move, her round little ass peeking out from her tiny shorts, luscious breasts straining against the thin fabric of her tight tank top, and that wide hazel gaze narrowed with rage turned me on more than pornography. She was incredibly unimpressed with me, and for some insane reason, that part made me fucking crazy. In a good way, if I’m not making myself clear.
Harlow is a feast for my lonely eyes and an elixir for my weary soul.
She’s Candy Cane Key’s resident cat lady and owner of the old Mills Estate, a property I once coveted but couldn’t bully the owners into selling. It sits on the island's highest point and is less vulnerable to flooding. My dream girl is living in my dream house—that has to be a sign.
She’s too young for me. Julian at Tranquili-tea, who befriended her shortly after she arrived in January, told me she’s twenty-one, single, and a sucker for cats. I picked up on that the day we met. There are so many things wrong with that description, but none deter me from pursuing the first girl who has kept me perpetually hard for five days. It’s a personal record, and I need to get to the bottom of it.
As soon as I saw the jagged rock jutting out of the sand, obscured by the foamy surf, I knew she was heading for it. Following her on her run wasn’t the smoothest move, but I’ve spent the last four days stalking her around town with no success. Like an idiot, I prepared bump-in scenarios at the tea shop, the bakery and the pizzeria. I even carted one of my cats to the vet for a nail trim when I overheard her telling someone at the grocery store that she was taking Baxter for his neutering appointment. My strategy sucked. I played it too safe and missed every single opportunity to talk to her.
