Page 1 of Swept Away (Men of War #1)

G EMMA

I hear him crying through my headphones.

And these are good quality, expensive headphones, by the way. They’re supposed to cancel out the noise.

My fingers freeze on the keyboard, my back stiff as I listen.

The crying stopped.

Good.

I shift my eyes back to my laptop and resume typing when I hear him again.

Oh, my God.

I can’t believe him.

I yank my headphones off, push my chair back, and rise to my feet, trying not to stumble over my desk as I spin toward the window and open it widely.

Holding my bathrobe together, I rake my eyes over the lush tree crown concealing part of the building.

These trees are a blessing in the summer, blocking the sun from reaching the brownstones lining the street.

Even so, a trickle of light hits my kitchen in the mornings, making it a delight to sip coffee or have breakfast before going to my desk and starting to work.

In the evenings, though, these trees become a whole new universe populated with little critters like the pest who thinks these branches are perfect avenues for strolling, and a tree fork is the best lounging place.

How many times have I caught him sleeping in the tree this past week?

Five.

And who lost this little guy?

I don’t know.

And why aren’t they looking for him?

Beats me.

I tried to catch him a couple of times by luring him to the ground with a treat and a bowl of water.

Had zero luck.

He looked at me with sleepy eyes and simply ignored me. Or he jumped to a lower branch, giving me hope before flicking his whiskers at me and ignoring me.

Short of asking my neighbors if they’ve lost a kitten, which I have, or calling the firefighters to bring him down, which, trust me, I have contemplated, I don’t know what else to do.

It’s a cute little fireball. An orange tabby with eyes bluer than the sea.

I’m sure he belongs to someone, although he has no collar. But he’s well fed, and playful, and likes to fuck with my peace of mind.

I can’t sleep when he’s outside, fearing that something bad might happen to him.

I lean over the windowsill and check the tree, murmuring nasty words under my breath.

“Where are you, you little dick?”

I called him Maverick because he’s bold and adventurous.

One of the branches touches the windowsill, so I grab it and pull it down to clear my view and get a glimpse inside the tree.

The streetlights dotting the road across from where I live gleam faintly through a curtain of leaves and branches.

It’s a nice summer evening, a comforting breeze sweeping the streets, which is a big improvement from a month ago when I sweated my butt off even with the AC blasting ice-cold air in my apartment.

The kitten has stopped crying again.

I swear he does this on purpose to annoy me.

Sometimes, I turn the AC off and open the windows at night. He must see inside my place and do everything he can to make me stop doing what I’m doing and come to the window to search for him.

And then he plays hide and seek with me, like now.

I bet his little furry ass he is one of my exes reincarnated.

For the record, none of them are dead, but their spirits must’ve taken up residence in this little furry ball of joy.

Oops.

I can see him.

Usually, he sits on the highest branch and looks down at me with amusement.

He did it again.

Here I am, staring at him.

Males. They’re all a tease.

I barely finish that thought and move my eyes away before peering through the branches again, and something interesting and new catches my eye across the street.

“Who the fuck is that?” I whisper to myself.

The houses across the street are similar to the brownstones tucked on this side of the road.

And the one across from me is almost identical to the one I’m living in.

They both have a few steps leading to the main door.

Speaking of the house across the street.

The windows are rarely lit, and I don’t remember seeing people going in and out of that house since I moved here.

I moved into my aunt Charlize’s apartment last fall at the beginning of the school year and pay rent, but nothing like the exorbitant prices other people ask.

Although she’s given me plenty of information on her neighbors—just to make sure I know their quirks and get along with them–she's never talked about the house across the street.

But someone lives in that house.Or comes to that house regularly.

An older woman.

I saw her walk in a couple of times, turn on the lights, and open the windows.

I was always under the impression that she was living somewhere else, and she was only checking on the house.

But who knows, right?

If that’s the case, that is not my neighbor.

I wish the lights inside my place were turned off so I could take a better look at the man lounging on the stairs.

He sits on the third step, to be exact, his legs sprawled over the sidewalk, his elbows propped on the concrete, his head tilted back as if life has been difficult for him lately.

I press my chest against the windowsill, and once I’m one with it, I study him while murmuring words of advice for the little orange tabby devil.

“This is not the time to meow again and draw attention to us,” I whisper, somewhat hidden behind a wall of leaves.

The man’s shoulders and biceps are covered in ink, his flat, shredded abdomen visible under the faint streetlights, his T-shirt crumpled up next to him.

It’s hot outside, but not that hot.

Still, I don’t mind staring at him, and I begin to wonder whether he’s dark-haired or brown-haired or cute looking, which shouldn’t be my business now.

I have work to do.

Freelancing is what pays my bills, not studying some stranger’s V-shaped torso who wears his pants hung low to give me a hot flash.

“Meow. Meow.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Now you’re meowing?”

I flick my eyes up, forgetting about the stranger for a moment.

A flashlight would’ve been great right now to signal to the little rascal to keep his mouth shut.

I wish I could figure out where this kitty is coming from.

Truly.

Sadly, I’m just as puzzled about the stranger.

I move my eyes across the street to check on that stranger again, worried that he might see me dangling from the windowsill while trying to lure down the kitten.

The man has lifted his head and straightened somewhat, but his eyes are not on me.

He peers up the street as the headlights of a car loom in the distance and casually brings a can of beer to his lips.

He doesn’t look in my direction, and now I wish he were so I could see his face.

Inching closer, the car casts a glow over his face, and as it moves past him, the man follows it with his eyes, giving me what I want.

A glimpse of his face.

My heart stops for a second, and I forget about my work, the stray kitty, and the ragged bathrobe wrapped around my body.

He’s good-looking as only book boyfriends are.

Not much older than me–he’s maybe in his mid twenties–he has those boyish slash manly looks that stop traffic and make ovaries work overtime.

It hasn’t happened for me lately as I’ve been busy with my freelance work, school, and saving up for my new life after college.

I’m a girl with a plan, and men have never been part of that plan because they cost time, sometimes even money, and often times, lost opportunities.

They’re high maintenance even when they don’t appear to be, and I don’t have space for that shit in my life. But watching them from afar hasn’t hurt anyone, yeah?

Once the car passes by, he sets his drink down and rakes a sinewy hand through his dark hair.

It could be dark brown.

He’s cute as the devil, and a birthmark, or maybe a small tattoo, marks the spot beneath his left temple.

Suddenly, my heart beats faster, and I want to know more about him.

He makes himself busy with his phone, swiping the screen with languor in his moves as if he’s suddenly bored.

Or is he waiting for someone?

His eyes trailing that moving car may have suggested that.

Who is he waiting for?

And why is he sitting on those stairs?

I lift my gaze and check the house.

Most windows are dark, but a night light glows on the upper floor. That light has been there since I moved here.

I move my eyes up, but can’t see the cat.

Even if he peeks at me, he clearly has no intention of coming down.

Okay.

So, the cat ignores me.

And the man has no idea that I’m here.

The reasonable thing to do is to spin around, go back, and resume my work.

“You, men…” I mutter, fleetingly considering changing my bathrobe for something more flattering and cute before whisking that thought away with a wave of my hand and a few silent words I mostly keep to myself.

I barely reach my desk and pick up my headphones when I hear the distinct sound of something falling through the leaves and scratching at the tree.

I toss my headphones on my desk, sprint to the window, and desperately look for the kitten.

His meowing comes from down below at the bottom of the tree. I can’t see him before I finally do, and I almost have a heart attack.

“Stay there. Do not move,” I bark as the little bundle of naughtiness is about to make a run for the other side of the street while the bright lights of an oncoming car sweep the road.

I don’t have time to look at the house across the street as my heart drums like a hammer.

If anything happens to that cat, it’ll be on me. The thought makes me spin around and sprint to the door, not even caring to run a brush through my hair.

There’s no time for that, I’m thinking to myself, yanking the door open, sprinting down the hallway, taking the stairs down, and exiting the building like a mad woman.

No matter how fast I move, it still feels like forever to reach the street.

To make things worse, I run into a wall of light, the car traveling past me fleetingly blinding me.

My heart hits my chest wall in a fit of panic as I think the worst.

Good grief. Why are cats so stubborn?

I don’t even have the time to jump in front of the car and warn the driver that a cat might be in the middle of the road, when the vehicle zooms by, probably faster than it should, and I clamp a hand over my face in despair, waiting to see what has come of my little friend.

A long sigh leaves my chest when all is over, and the street is silent and dim again, and I see no casualties.

Wrecked with panic, I run my eyes over the road.

“Is this yours?” a deep, low voice rings across the street, and washed with disbelief, I drag my gaze to the man across from me.

The stranger I had watched from my window stands at the bottom of the stairs, about six feet and two inches tall, give or take, the small fluffy orange kitten wrapped around his hand like a koala.

The man has a steady piercing gaze that I’ve only seen in movies.

It’s the kind of stare that makes you do stupid things like walk across the street to chase a tiny baby cat wearing your most atrociously looking clothes.

Shorts and a tank top underneath, and a long, worn-out bathrobe clumsily tied around my waist.

My flyaway hair must look amazing now, sticking out and flying in the wind, not to mention my livid face.

Way to meet a sexy stranger.

“Are you going to cross the street and take it, or do you want me to keep it?” he asks with a faint smile on his face.

That’s the other thing about that kind of stare.

Once your eyes are locked with his, it feels like someone has put you under hypnosis, and your feet start moving in the direction that he wants.

I can’t move my eyes away from his.

And despite that, I still notice his soft smile, the way he keeps his head tilted down a little, and slightly to the side, and how he studies me, aware of the power of his gaze.

I wish I had that kind of power over the cat who moves his head and looks up at the stranger as mesmerized with him as I am.

“Sure. I’m coming.”

He moves his eyes up the road, and I do the same as another car heads our way.

A few seconds pass as he lifts his hand, signaling me to let it pass before even thinking about crossing the road and joining him.

His T-shirt now dangles from his belt, tied like a scarf, while his torso is even yummier than I thought.

He shifts his gaze back to me, and I become hostage to his subtle power.

When he looks at me, my life gets severely disrupted.

And it’s not only about my body warming under his eyes. Or my heart racing, and my breaths pacing.

Or the sticky sweat dotting my hairline.

I can’t think of anything else other than him.

His power over me may be benevolent, yet it’s still a little scary.

“You can come now…” he says, his raspy voice becoming armies of invisible ants that travel down my spine.

The play of words brings naughty things to the front of my mind.

It’s impossible not to smile.

It sounds like I can go to him because he has a surprise for me.

It also sounds like I can go to him because he’s no longer naked, which is not the case here.

Or it sounds like he’s simply telling me to come, which I haven’t done in a while, and I don’t even know what that feels like.

Holding my bathrobe together, I pace across the street.

I hate that he looks like that, all sexy and handsome, and I look like this, all disheveled, in no way presentable.

It shouldn’t matter, although it does.

It makes me so damn nervous.