Page 13 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Twelve

A spen

Sebastian gave me a taste of his Pad See Ew, which was every bit as excellent as promised, and his chopstick skills were every bit as disastrous. By the time we finish dinner, my stomach hurts not from food, but from laughing.

“Let me walk you home,” Sebastian offers as we step outside the restaurant. “It’s gotten late.”

The night air is unusually balmy for late March in upstate New York. Streetlights cast warm pools on the sidewalk as we walk in companionable silence, full and content from dinner.

“Can I ask you something?” I venture after a while. “Something I’ve been wondering?”

His snakes perk up with interest. “Of course.”

“Your sanctuary effect—can you turn it off? Or is it always… working?”

He considers this thoughtfully. “It’s always present to some degree, but stronger when I’m focused or when someone nearby needs it. Like background music that sometimes swells.” His eyes find mine. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I feel it,” I admit. “Not just at the library or during the fire, but right now. It’s like…” I search for the right words. “Like finally exhaling after holding your breath too long.”

His pace slows. “That’s… unusual. Most people don’t consciously notice it unless it’s very strong.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, just rare.” One of his snakes—Evangeline, I’m starting to recognize her distinctive patterns—stretches slightly toward me before catching herself. “It means you’re particularly…” he hesitates, “…sensitive.”

Something in his tone makes heat bloom across my skin. I’m grateful for the dim lighting that hides my reaction.

“What about you?” I ask, desperate to shift attention away from my apparent receptiveness to his magic. “What does Sebastian Fangborn dream about when he’s not shelving books or escaping restaurant fires?”

His chuckle vibrates through the night air. “Would you believe a garden? Something wild and a little untamed, but peaceful. A place where things can grow without being forced into rigid shapes.”

The longing in his voice touches something deep inside me. “That sounds beautiful.”

“What about you? What does Aspen Walker want that she doesn’t already have?”

The unexpected question catches me off guard. So many people ask what I need, what Milo needs, what clients need. Almost no one asks what I want.

“Stability,” I answer honestly. “Not just financial, though that’s part of it. But emotional stability. A life where I’m not constantly braced for the next disaster.”

“You carry a lot,” he observes softly.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not like you.” There’s such certainty in his voice that I have to look away, afraid of what he might see in my expression.

We turn onto a narrow pathway that cuts between two streets. It rained while we were in the restaurant, and the brick walkway is slick. I’m suddenly regretting my choice of impractical shoes when, halfway across, my foot slides on a particularly slippery section.

Sebastian’s reaction is immediate. His arm loops around my waist, strong and steady, while his other hand catches mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm and straight to my core. For a breathless moment, I’m cradled against his massive chest.

The solid wall of him is overwhelming—all heat and strength and barely restrained power that makes my knees weak. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I can feel the definition of muscle and the rapid beat of his heart that matches my own.

My hand splays against his chest instinctively, and the sharp intake of breath he takes makes me hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. The scent of him—cedar and something darker, more masculine—makes me want to press closer instead of pulling away.

His gaze holds mine with an intensity that has everything to do with the electricity crackling between us. His gaze drops to my lips, lingers there with an intensity that makes need coil in my belly.

When his eyes return to mine, they’re darker than before, pupils dilated to reptilian slits in a way that has nothing to do with the dim lighting.

The transformation is startling and beautiful—something I’ve never seen before.

For a moment, I don’t know whether it turns me on or repels me.

The predatory change should be frightening, but instead, attraction hits me with uncanny force, primal and overwhelming.

There’s something hypnotic about the way his pupils narrow to those otherworldly slits, something that calls to a part of me I didn’t know existed.

The space between us feels charged, electric, like touching him again would spark something neither of us could control. His hand at my waist tightens almost imperceptibly, and I can feel the exact moment his resolve wavers—see it in the way his jaw ticks, in how his breathing changes.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling through me where we’re pressed together.

I should straighten up, should step away, should maintain the careful distance this fake-dating arrangement requires. Instead, I remain still, hyperaware of his warmth, the gentle pressure of his hand spanning my waist, and his subtle scent.

His snakes have gone completely still, as if they, too, are holding their breath.

When I finally look up, the intensity in his eyes makes my heart stutter.

There’s something unguarded there, something that has nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with the electricity crackling between us.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words barely audible.

“Anytime,” he answers, his grip loosening but not releasing entirely as I find my footing.

We continue walking, closer now, his hand occasionally brushing mine. Neither of us moves away. Neither of us acknowledges the shift. But something has changed, subtle yet undeniable.

At my door, we pause in that awkward moment of not-quite-goodnight. In the yellow porch light, his features look softer, his snakes creating gentle shadows across his face.

“I…” I begin, then don’t know how to sum up our evening.

“That was nice,” he finishes. “Even with the fire evacuation.”

“Especially with the fire evacuation,” I correct with a smile. “Nothing like a little danger to make dinner memorable.”

His answering laugh makes my stomach flip.

One of his snakes—definitely Evangeline—stretches toward me, almost touching my hair before retreating.

Sebastian makes a sound partway between a moan and a purr.

It rumbles through his chest in a way that makes me want to press my ear there and feel the vibration.

Standing this close, I can see subtle flecks of gold in his amber eyes, can count the individual scales that catch the porch light.

When he shifts slightly closer—maybe unconsciously—the heat radiating from his massive frame wraps around me like a living thing.

I find myself leaning into that warmth, my body betraying my attempts at maintaining professional distance.

His gaze drops briefly to my lips, so quickly I might have imagined it.

But the hunger I glimpsed there was unmistakable—raw and wanting and carefully controlled.

My lips part involuntarily under that heated look, and his sharp intake of breath tells me he noticed.

The air between us thickens with possibility, with the weight of things neither of us can say.

When he takes a half-step closer, I tilt my face up instinctively, my body moving toward his like he’s magnetic north.

“I should…” he gestures vaguely behind him.

“Right. Yes. It’s late.”

But neither of us moves. “Goodnight, Aspen,” he finally says, his voice deeper than usual.

“Goodnight, Sebastian.”

He steps back, creating space between us, but his eyes never leave mine. When he finally turns, I watch him walk away, his massive frame gradually disappearing into the darkness. Only when he’s completely gone, do I realize I’ve been motionless as a statue as I followed him with my gaze.

Upstairs, inside my apartment, I lean against the closed door, heart racing for reasons I refuse to examine too closely. This is fake dating, I remind myself firmly. A mutual arrangement for mutual benefit.

So why does my skin still tingle where he touched me? Why does the memory of his arms around me feel more real than anything has in years?

Shaking off the thoughts, I thank Clair, get the excited rundown of the macaroni and paper plate projects they made, and artfully dodge her polite questions. I don’t want to talk about tonight’s fake date, don’t want to let the fantastic feeling fade when reality hits.

I check on Milo, sleeping peacefully with Super Steggy clutched tight. This—my son, his happiness—is what matters. Not the way Sebastian’s smile transforms his face, or how safe I felt in his arms, or the look in his eyes when we said goodnight.

Those thoughts are dangerous. Complicated. Better left unexplored.

Even if they follow me into my dreams.