Free Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise by Penny Reid

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 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, his tone sounding suddenly offended—again, in that way only the British can affect—then 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 over his chest, 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 of voice, 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 older 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 wry 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