Page 12 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Eleven

S ebastian

The Bangkok Palace’s neon sign casts a pink glow over Aspen’s face as we claim the last available table. My snakes are still jittery from the excitement at The Lucky Goat, though whether from the fire or my mortifying attempts at conversation is anyone’s guess.

“So,” Aspen says, settling into her chair. “About that calm bubble…”

“Maybe we should order first?” The words come out too fast. Evangeline gives my ear a gentle nudge, her way of telling me to relax. “I mean, if you’re hungry. Or we could—”

“Relax.” Aspen’s smile has a softness to it that makes my throat tight. “The restaurant’s not on fire, your water glass is safely out of reach, and I promise not to run screaming when you tell me about your mysterious Gorgon powers.”

“They’re not mysterious,” I protest automatically. “Just… complicated.”

The waiter appears with menus and a knowing grin as he gives us an exaggerated sniff. “Ah, refugees from The Lucky Goat? Half the town’s date nights are ending up here.”

“Oh, we’re not—” I start, just as Aspen says, “It’s not really—”

“Right, right.” He winks. “The Pad See Ew is excellent for ‘not dates.’ I’ll give you a minute.”

My snakes coil in embarrassment as he walks away. But Aspen just laughs, the same genuine sound from earlier that quieted all my anxious thoughts.

“Well, at least we’re consistent in our awkwardness,” she says, opening her menu. “Though I notice you’re trying to distract me from the special-powers question.”

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “Would it work if I claimed it was a trade secret?”

“Nope.” She peers at me over the menu’s edge. “Spill.”

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to meet her eyes.

“Until all the secret species ‘came out’ five years ago, no one gave a thought to male Gorgons. Honestly, I don’t know how people thought little Gorgons were made since all the ancient myths are about females.

Well, that doesn’t matter. You’ll be happy to know that male Gorgons don’t turn people to stone.

We have certain…other abilities that we discover as we age. ”

I take a sip of water—without spilling it—then forge on.

“For me, one of them is creating spaces of safety and calm. I call it the sanctuary effect. It works strongest in places I consider my domain—like the library—but requires conscious focus to maintain. The larger the area or the more people involved, the more it drains me. And if I’m emotionally compromised, it can either surge out powerfully, sometimes out of my control, or fail completely. ”

“Like at the library during storytime?”

My surprise must show on my face because she continues, “I’ve noticed how everything feels… easier there. Less chaotic. Until now, I thought it was just you being good with kids, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The admission feels both terrifying and freeing. “I must admit, tonight was… unusual.”

“Because of the fire?”

His voice dips low. “Because of you .”

The words slip out before I can stop them. But instead of looking disturbed, she leans forward with interest. “What do you mean?”

Thankfully, the waiter returns, sparing me from having to respond. Aspen orders Pad Thai with extra peanuts. I manage to request the Pad See Ew without knocking anything over.

“The sanctuary effect,” I continue once he’s gone, “responds to emotional needs. Usually just in a general way, creating a subtle sense of peace within a thirty-foot radius if I’m focused. But sometimes, with certain people…” My snakes shift nervously.

“It becomes stronger?”

“More… specific. Like it knows exactly what kind of calm they need.”

She studies me for a moment, then asks, “Is that why Milo loves storytime so much? Because he feels safe there?”

The protectiveness in her voice warms something deep in my chest. “Partly. But mostly that’s because he’s a bright kid who loves books. The sanctuary effect just helps him relax enough to enjoy them.”

“Unlike his mother, who gets banned for dropping F-bombs.”

“About that…” But she waves it off.

“Ancient history. Well, six-day-old history. Besides, I believe you promised me a demonstration of your legendary chopstick skills?”

The food arrives, steaming and fragrant. True to my warning, my first attempt at noodles ends with more on the table than in my mouth. Aspen doesn’t even try to hide her grin.

“Here.” She reaches across the table, adjusting my grip on the chopsticks. “Like this.”

Her fingers are so smooth against mine, and for a moment, all my snakes go completely still.

The simple contact sends awareness bolting through me.

Heat spreads up my arm and settles low in my stomach as her thumb unconsciously strokes across my knuckle.

The innocuous touch feels anything but innocent—it’s the most intimate contact I’ve had in years, and my body responds with embarrassing enthusiasm.

When she adjusts her grip, her palm pressing more firmly against mine, I have to concentrate on not letting my breathing change.

Every nerve ending where we touch seems to come alive, and I’m acutely aware of the pulse point at her wrist, the softness of her skin, the way her fingers fit perfectly against mine.

Then Evangeline, the traitor, tries to nuzzle her in approval, expressing the affection I’m trying so hard to contain.

Aspen’s touch is impossibly warm, almost fevered, and I can feel my individual scales as they slide against her skin—my snakes acting as tiny sensors feeding information directly to my brain.

The scent of her pulse point hits me like a physical blow, and I have to fight the urge to lean closer, to taste the salt of her skin.

My snakes’ reaction is immediate and embarrassing—they rise higher, their tongues flicking out to sample her scent, their scales brightening in what can only be described as arousal.

The predatory part of my nature that I keep carefully leashed recognizes her as desirable, and it takes all my willpower not to let that show.

“Sorry!” I pull back, but Aspen just laughs.

“It’s okay. They’re actually kind of cute when they’re not trying to hide.” She demonstrates the chopstick hold again. “Try now.”

The noodles still slip, but fewer escape. We fall into an easy rhythm of eating and talking. She tells me about her plans to expand her virtual assistant business, Aspenly Yours, into a full-time venture. I share stories about the library’s more colorful patrons.

“Wait,” she says between bites. “Mrs. Randall actually tried to ban The Very Hungry Caterpillar because it promotes overeating?”

“And…” I shift my voice in a terrible imitation to conclude, “corrupts youth with its glorification of junk food.”

Her laughter fills our corner of the restaurant, and I realize with a start that I’m not worried about taking up too much space anymore. My snakes are relaxed, my shoulders have dropped from around my ears, and the sanctuary effect hums contentedly without any conscious effort on my part.

It feels… nice. Surprisingly, wonderfully nice.

“Sebastian?” Aspen’s voice brings me back to the moment. “You’re smiling.”

“I am?”

“Mmhmm. It’s a good look on you.”

And somehow, in a tiny Thai restaurant on a fake date that started with a fire, I find myself believing her.