Page 2 of Swept Away (Men of War #1)
G EMMA
“What’s his name?” he asks when I pull up in front of him and realize he is so much taller and bigger than I am.
“He doesn’t have a name,” I say, taking the kitten from him and pretending I’m not shaken by the undercurrent of electricity zapping through me when I touch his hand.
Telling him that I called him Maverick feels like letting out too much. That should remain my secret.
The man’s eyes stay on my face as I grab the kitten and tuck it against my chest, struggling to avoid his stare.
He smells good, and he hasn’t been drinking beer, as a sweet and minty aroma drifts from his lips.
A hint of aftershave and smoke dances across his skin.
His expression is reserved when I lift my eyes. And for a second, I’m at a loss for words.
I intensely dislike having to turn my back to him and leave without learning more about his presence here.
“He’s a stray,” I say when he looks at me as if thinking about something other than the cat or the street or me looking like a lunatic while chasing the kitten across the road.
“How come?” he asks in a clipped voice, and a kernel of awareness trickles through me when I realize he’s prolonging this moment for some reason.
I don’t know what he wants me to say, so I shrug. Aren’t I the greatest conversationalist?
He drags his eyes over the street.
“I don’t see any strays on the street.”
I shrug again.
“I think he’s a stray. No one’s claimed him or looked for him. I was trying to get him off the tree when he fell. I wanted to catch him, but he never comes to me the way he comes to you.”
His eyes smile as he nods in approval before slightly tipping his chin toward the cat.
“He seems fine now. You should give him a name and just keep him.”
My cheeks burn.
I wanted to do that so many times, but I thought he belonged to someone living on my street, and didn’t want to get in hot water with my neighbors.
Besides, it wasn’t only up to me.
I look at the cat.
Now he’s fine, the little devil.
That wasn’t the case moments ago when he was vocalizing in the tree and pretty much flipping the bird at me when I tried to make him climb down.
The kitten tips his face up and soaks me in with his blue eyes, purring like the true matchmaker that he is. As if his whole purpose in life is to make me get to know the man in front of me a little better.
“I will,” I say softly when I drag my eyes to the man standing in front of me.
And that would wrap up a casual conversation, which is not the case here, as something keeps me in place.
I flick my chin toward the stairs.
“I saw you sitting on the steps. Were you waiting for someone?”
He tilts his head down slightly, his eyes glinting with a random thought.
He seems amused and intrigued, which is not what I usually get from men.
Most figure me out quickly–that there’s nothing there for them–so they’re neither amused nor intrigued.
They move on in a breath.
And I normally look more put together than this.
Never in the history of hookups, old bathrobes and flyways did the trick, so I doubt he’s taken with me.
But he acts like he’s interested in me.
Maybe the cat did the trick for him.
Although I wouldn’t necessarily consider him a cat person, or a pet person in general.
By the looks of him, he might not have a place to live or a job, and he might be in trouble with the law.
He shifts slightly and peers at the house as if the answer is dangling from the windowsill.
“I was told my sister lived here,” he says when he shifts his gaze back to me and narrows his eyes with an expectant look.
The corners of my mouth slacken.
“For real?”
“Yeah…” he says, dipping his eyes to my lips.
Overly conscious of the glimmer of heat in his eyes, I roll my bottom lip under my teeth and nod… at nothing.
“Huh…” I say, intrigued.
Freeing my lip, I speak again.
“I haven’t seen anyone who might look like your sister. I’m thinking, um… someone your age?”
“She should be more like your age,” he tosses back at me, and I wonder if he didn’t just make up the story.
“You haven’t met her before?” I push at him, prompted by a hunch.
“Something like that.”
“Is she your sister for real? Like a biological sister?”
“She’s my stepsister. I’ve never had the chance to meet her, though.”
“Well… I don’t think anyone lives here, to be honest.”
I gesture at the house and tell him about the old lady who comes to the house once in a while to open the windows, let some fresh air in, and most likely clean the place.
“Do you know who this old woman might be?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” he says, his eyes igniting little fires across my lips.
He struggles to move his stare to my eyes, and I doubt his story is true.
He's paying more attention to my mouth than my story.
“Okay… Well, do you have a phone number? I can call you if anyone fitting your description steps into that house?”
He hesitates before he speaks again.
“Yeah. We can do that.”
“I don’t have my phone with me right now.”
“I’ll call you,” he says, scooping out his phone from his back pocket. “What’s your phone number?”
I give him my number before he calls my phone.
It rings in my room, and his eyes go in that direction.
I don’t know if it was wise to tell him so much about me. He now has my phone number and knows where I live.
And what do I know about him?
He’s sex on a stick and good at crafting a story, which I bet is a lie.
There is no sister in this story, and yet she’s the only reason I’m here, still talking to him.
He ends the call, and silence falls over us.
I speak again, convinced I’ll never call this man.
“Thanks for the cat,” I say and reluctantly give him a little wave.
“Any time,” he says, reaching inside his pocket and pulling out a cigarette.
He slides it between his lips and leaves it unlit.
“Call him Gizmo,” he says as I spin around to leave.
I stop and look at him.
“Why?”
“He’s cute and curious,” he answers around his cigarette and gives me a smile that’s only for me, a mix of mischief and trouble.
My cheeks burn again, and a soft wave of pleasure sets my insides alight.
Normally, I’d flash back a flirting smile and flick my hair over my shoulder.
None of that is possible now, as my grin would look like I was trying too hard, and my hair can’t just magically escape my loose bun.
Smiling to myself, I shift around and wave at him again, although he’s not looking at me, busy with making the trip back.