Read Online Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise by Penny Reid - Free Book Online Page B

jaw was angular—his bone structure more a sharp reverse trapezoid than a square—and he was tall, at least a full foot taller than me.
    But his eyes…his dark, dark brown eyes were almond shaped, and they met mine directly; they struck me at once as expressive and cautious, curious and cynical.
    Then, for no reason at all, my gaze dropped to his mouth. It held no hint of a smile, yet the first word that popped into my mind as I stared at his mouth was generous. He had generous lips, the bottom larger than the top, giving him the appearance of a small frown or pout; and they were slightly chapped, made red from his exercise.
    He smelled like snow and soap and sweat—and not rank, pungent sweat. It was a sweet, masculine smell and made my internal organs try to rearrange themselves; likely the powers of male pheromones were at work.
    “Hello,” he said, his tone dry, flat.
    My eyes darted back to his, and I could feel myself blush—just a little, as I was not prone to embarrassment—at being caught staring at his mouth.
    He was squinting at me, like a full-on Dirty Harry squint. I had the distinct impression I was being examined.
    “Hi,” I said, remembering myself and stepping backwards. But, rather than let me go, he took a step forwards—his hands still gripping my upper arms—like we were dancing and he was matching my movements.
    I blinked up at him, knowing surprise and confusion were obvious on my face.
    “What are-”
    “Wait for it,” he said, dipping his chin, and shifted to the side just as Sasquatch barreled down the hall past us, a spiked heel flying through the air in his wake. I became aware of a second shoe pummeling toward us, the aim very bad.
    “Watch out!” I tried to move this tall, dark stranger, but he stood rigid, only flinching slightly when the shoe hit him in the head.
    “Oh! Sorry, Greg.” Fern jogged past, chasing the Sasquatch and calling back to us, “That wasn’t meant for you.”
    “It’s alright; a shoe to the head is better than a shoe to the bollocks,” he said, and all at once I recognized that he had an upper-crust British accent; it was diluted, but it was definitely there. His tone dry, flat, almost robotic in a way that only the English can achieve, yet a complete contradiction to the deep cadence of his voice.
    He was watching their retreating forms, his face devoid of expression, and I took the opportunity to study him further.
    His form was sleek, his shoulders and arms muscled, but not overly so. His torso was slim and v-shaped. He had long legs, thick thighs, built for speed, encased in all-weather spandex. He was a runner.
    I grasped that he was older than me. He had the beginnings of laugh lines or worry lines or frown lines around his eyes and mouth—I couldn’t tell which. But more than that, there was an air of wisdom and experience that radiated from him, like he’d already lived a great deal.
    I often find that, as a cancer survivor, I tend to know when another person has lived through tragedy, prolonged physical or mental suffering. Like recognizes like, and I recognized it in this man. Usually it repelled me. I did not wish to dwell on my past. These people typically wished to swap stories. I had no desire for commiseration.
    But nothing about this man repelled me, nothing at all. I felt strangely and suddenly involved .
    He glanced down, met my gaze squarely, and didn’t seem at all surprised that I was ogling him.
    “I’m Greg,” he said matter-of-factly, releasing my arm suddenly, stepping away and directly in front of me. He lifted his gloved hand to his mouth and tugged it off with the aid of his teeth. My stare flickered to his mouth again, finding the flash of his white teeth biting his black leather glove distracting.
    Before I knew it, he was holding his hand between us, offering it in a handshake.
    I stared at it, not quite sure what to do.
    “Shake it,” he said.
    Startled by the command and flustered by my inaction, I lifted my