by Penny Reid
“You have lice in your chest hair!” I heard Fern bellow at Sasquatch some distance behind me.
I glanced up distractedly at this second boy I’d run into, wondering if he’d also be employing an aptly-titled fictional subspecies as a nickname—maybe the Yeti—and did a double-take when our eyes met.
His face was completely calm, serene, though damp and reddish on his high cheek bones and the bridge of his undeniably masculine nose. This was likely from the perspiration associated with cardiovascular exercise in cold weather. His thick, dark brown hair was standing up and in spiky disarray, like he’d just taken off a hat. His 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.
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. They were slightly chapped.
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 power of male pheromones at work.
“Hello,” he said, his tone dry and 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, 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 forward—his hands still gripping my upper arms—like we were dancing and he was matching my movements.
I blinked up at him, knowing my surprise and confusion were obvious. “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 haughtily robotic in a way that only the British 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, 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 want 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 arms 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 hand and fit it in his. “Yes, sorry. Hi, I’m Fiona.”
He nodded once in acknowledgement, his eyes skating over my face. “Tell me, Fiona, what do you call a female astronaut?”
I frowned at him and his question, acutely disappointed that I’d misread him. I was surprised by how upset I was, more than I should have been given the full minute we’d spent in each other’s company.
College boys and their adolescent jokes, it made him less alluring and so much more…typical.
Pressing my lips together to keep from frowning, I withdrew my hand from his and shrugged, knowing my face demonstrated my lack of interest in the sudden turn of the conversation.
“I don’t know, what do you call a female astronaut?” My voice mimicked the robotic quality of his.
“An astronaut, of course,” he said, sounding suddenly offended—again, in that way only the British can affect—he shook his head like he was disillusioned with me. “For shame, Fiona. Your misogyny is showing.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, and this time I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. “I like that joke.”
“Now female astronauts are a joke? Tsk.” He sighed, crossing his arms, his eyes moving up and down the length of me.
“You live here,” he said suddenly. “I recognize you.”
I nodded, leaning against the wall and clasping my hands behind me. “Yes. I do.”
“But you’re a hermit.”
I began to suspect that he said virtually everything in that dry tone, one employed by the innately and perpetually sarcastic, those who are too witty for their own good. It was very rapid fire, Sherlock-Holmes-esque. Usually my younger sister used that voice on my mother as a coping strategy.
One never knew if the speaker were serious or joking, and it ran the risk of making the speaker come across as superior, arrogant, and patronizing.
But in Greg I found it to be completely charming—so far—and that (paired with his impressively lithe build, the coiled and potential power of his body, angular features, and guarded expression) made him dangerously magnetic.
“That’s right,” I nodded, studying him, feeling a strange electric current pass between us, “I’m a hermit.”
The side of his mouth hinted at the barest of whisper of a smile, but his brown eyes betrayed only undemonstrative curiosity. “Working on any manifestos that I should know about?”
I shook my head. “None that concern you.”
“But you’ll keep me apprised of any that may interest me?”
“Why would you be interested in my manifestos, seeing as how I’m misogynistic?”
He glanced down the hall, obviously fighting a smile. The evidence of it made me feel triumphant for some reason, like I’d achieved something of note.
When his dark eyes turned back to me, they captured mine and dared me to look away. “I like to keep current on the latest trends, what rhetoric you people are spouting as truth.”
“You people…?”
“Bigamists and xenophobes.”
“I’m amazed by how well you know me after such a short acquaintance. Tell me, why would you want to know about my xenophobic manifestos?”
“Because sexists always have such interesting ideas.”
“Sexists have interesting ideas?”
“Ideas? Yes. Ideals? No.”
I scoffed, enjoying myself far too much, my heart and stomach fluttering together, in cahoots like squealing fangirls. “Name one interesting idea that’s arrived via sexism.”
> “Well, let’s see…” His eyes narrowed again, flickered over me as though predicting my reaction to his words before he’d spoken them, “Yemeni laws state that a woman must obey her husband and must not leave home without his permission.”
“And why is that interesting?” I felt a strange mixture of offended on behalf of Yemani women and incongruously curious and excited by the prospect of his answer.
“I think men will always be arrested on some level by the idea of owning their spouse, of completely possessing the woman they love, of having her unquestioning trust and obedience and admiration. But most importantly, of actually being a man that deserves it all. And I think women—though they are loathe to admit it—fundamentally want to be possessed.”
“That’s repugnant.” I wrinkled my nose at him, trying to hide how paradoxically disturbed and bizarrely hot his words made me. “There is nothing interesting about treating women as possessions; it’s dehumanizing.”
“Not necessarily, not if a man treasures his possession, cherishes her, protects her—it’s about ownership.”
“Ownership? Possessions can be discarded, given away,” I pointed out, feeling a thrill. Our conversation had become rapid fire, almost to the point of speaking over each other.
“So can people. People are discarded all the time. But if you truly own her, own her heart, if she is truly yours, abandoned to you, you cannot discard her. She is where she belongs, hence the ownership.”
“Possessions don’t have thoughts or feelings; they’re inanimate objects.”
“Ah, but women are never inanimate, not the way I do it.” I ignored this comment because his tone, which remained uninflected, was at odds with the suggestiveness of his words.
“If a husband were at the whim of his wife, it would be called emasculating. But when it’s the reverse, it’s acceptable?”
“That’s not true.”
“Which part?”
“You don’t like the idea of being owned? Of wholly belonging to someone?” he asked softly, his eyes warming and dipping to my neck before drifting to my lips.
“Other than to myself? No. I don’t like the idea of being a possession. Do you?”
“Yes,” he nodded slowly, his eyes no longer cautious. “Yes, I do quite like the idea of mutual ownership.”
I sputtered, warmth suffusing my chest, twisting in my stomach, making me feel breathless. I glanced at the ceiling, then glared at him; I tried to force myself to feel the irritation I should. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“But you like it.” Suddenly his tone changed; it was quiet, intimate, and tremendously self-assured.
I felt my grin too late; it had already split my face by the time I realized I was smiling. But his answering crooked grin and darkening eyes were worth the transparency of my expression.
He was more than fascinating, he was engaging, a curious and beautiful specimen. I found myself wanting to interact with him.
In fact, I liked him. I liked the shocking things he said, his measured offensive abrasiveness, and I let it show on my face. Furthermore I was about to admit these feelings out loud when our outrageous and flirtatious exchange was interrupted and the spell shattered.
“Greg, babe, you’re not dressed yet,” a girl called from several feet away, and I turned my attention towards her voice.
I had to fight the urge to gape. She was gorgeous, and she definitely wasn’t a girl. Towering at almost six feet, auburn hair, whiskey-colored eyes, she had the most perfect body I’d ever seen on an actual live person.
Her gaze moved over me and settled on something between dismissive and friendly. I’d learned early on in my observations last semester that women frequently did this (sizing their fellow females up in the span of a few seconds). I used to think it was something only athletes did to other competitors.
The mysterious supermodel had clearly determined I was not a threat.
I glanced away and down at my hand-knit socks, blushing again and running my fingers through my short hair. The hot stain on my cheeks was so unlike me, and yet I welcomed the sensation, the uncomfortableness of it. This was a new experience, and I would never begrudge new experiences, not after almost losing the ability to experience anything at all.
She strolled to where we stood, a polite smile on her face, and stopped next to Greg. I kept my eyes on either her or my socks, not wanting to look at this guy I liked, whom I thought I’d been flirting with. But in reality, he was likely just making sociable—albeit odd—conversation.
“We have twenty minutes before we have to be there.” She paused just long enough to give him a kiss then wipe away the lipstick with her thumb. She turned to me and gave me a wave, “Hi, I’m Vanessa.”
I returned her wave and friendly politeness with a sincere smile. “Hi, I’m Fiona. I live on that side.” I pointed down the hall.
“Did you just move in?”
Greg answered before I could, “No. She’s a xenophobic hermit who writes chauvinistic manifestos.”
Vanessa shook her head, her smile growing confused, and she hit him on the shoulder. “You’re weird.”
My gaze flickered to Greg’s, and I found him watching me with some inscrutable expression. I ignored it, pushed it from my mind, chalked the current of electricity I’d felt up to my seldom-used imagination and likely one-sided attraction.
Fern was right. I needed to actually interact with people more; observation was only so helpful. I needed to get out there and live.
“Well, I have to get back to studying.” I said this to Vanessa, giving her another wave. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“It was nice to meet you.” She returned the wave and fit her hand in Greg’s.
I turned without meeting his eyes and crossed my arms as I shuffled down the hall, greeting two girls I’d met earlier during Fern’s grand tour. I ignored the lingering tightness in my chest and heated flush of my skin.
That night I slept in Fern’s spare bed as Dara and Hivan were still going at it, obviously having made up at some point.
I felt an odd sense of happiness and peace.
When I hit eighteen the summer before college, I began to suspect there was something wrong with me. The last time I’d felt anything resembling a crush or interest in a boy had been during the fifth grade, before I’d been pulled out of school for a regimen of gymnastics and private tutors.
When I was diagnosed with cancer at fourteen, crushes and boys and the future ceased to hold meaning or feel real. By the time I was in recovery, academics held all of my focus. I was determined to leave my parents’ house.
Even so, during the course of my entire life, I’d never been aware or had an inkling that someone was attracted to me.
I thought of Sasquatch and his blatant leering. Even though he was an obvious player, it cheered me; his antics made me laugh lightly into my pillow.
Since I’d gone into remission, I’d often wondered if I was ugly. I would stop in front of mirrors and survey my face, shape, and general appearance.
I decided that I wasn’t ugly.
I had big brown eyes with long, thick lashes. I had a nice, normal nose. I had a nice mouth full of straight white teeth and framed by perfectly adequate lips. My face was oval and my skin free of blemishes. My dark brown hair was acceptable, still short due to the years of radiation.
No. I wasn’t ugly.
Nor was I an ugly person. I was a nice person. And I was smart. I was normal.
My thoughts turned to Greg and Vanessa, how lovely they looked together, how right and beautiful, and I felt a surge of happiness and hope. The momentary interest and attraction I’d felt for Greg was a good thing, something I should treasure as proof that I was alive and my heart still beat and air still filled my lungs.
Haughty and handsome Greg may have been meant for the stunning and friendly Vanessa. However, given the fact that my heart still beat and air still filled my lungs, surely there was someone out there for m
e. Now I just needed to stop watching people and actually talk to them.
*End Sneak Peek*: Ninja at First Sight is available on Amazon
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Sneak Peek: Dating-ish (Available Now!)
By Penny Reid, book #6 in the Knitting in the City series
I was sweating.
“Is this seat taken?”
My head whipped up from the book I wasn’t actually reading to the café employee. She’d placed her hands on the back of the second chair at my table and was gazing at me with an expectant smile.
“Yes. It’s taken,” I snapped, unable to catch the slathering of panic permeating my words.
I need that chair!
She lifted her hands as though the metal singed her skin and gave me a wide-eyed stare. My attention moved behind her and I spotted the nearby table of university students, obviously hunting for an extra seat.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I shook my head, taking a deep breath and telling myself to calm down. “I’m meeting someone and he’ll be here soon, I’m a little early.”
“Okay, no problem.” She gave me a polite smile and moved to another table, making the same enquiry.
My attention flickered to the door of the café, then to the clock above it. He wasn’t late. Yet.
I squirmed, wishing I’d worn something, anything other than this sweater dress, my eyes returning to the book on my lap.
Pay no attention to me, nothing to see here. I’m just sweating and not reading and waiting for my perfect match.
Derek Hamilton. Six foot three with a well-maintained beard, great smile, gray eyes, and short hair. He didn’t work out on the regular—which was great, because that meant he didn’t expect me to work out either—but enjoyed some outdoorsy activities. Engineer. Thirty-nine. Divorced, two kids.
We were a perfect match, Derek and I. That’s what Partner.com had indicated last Thursday.
You have a perfect match! The notification alerted when I signed in. The irony was, I’d been logging in to suspend my account. After two years of internet dating debacles, I was ready to take a break. But then I’d received the perfect match message. Therefore, I did what any normal person would do.