Page 14 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Thirteen

S ebastian

The three faces staring at me across my kitchen counter somehow manage to look both thrilled and disappointed at the same time.

Saturday morning had started peacefully until my announcement about dating Aspen was supposed to get them off my back.

Instead, they’re looking at me like they’re starving and I’m their favorite food.

“And you didn’t tell us immediately?” Iris clutches her chest dramatically. “After all we’ve done?”

“It’s only been a few days.” Guilt hits my chest like a thunderbolt at my white lie—our walk in the park was almost a week ago. My snakes curl defensively as Mabel circles around the counter, her eyes sparkling with dangerous enthusiasm.

“A few days!” Dorothy shakes her head sadly. “That’s hours and hours we could have been helping.”

“I don’t need—”

“Of course you need help, dear.” Iris pats my arm consolingly. “You’re a man. And a librarian. Both are hopeless at romance.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t argue, Sebastian.” Mabel’s already pulling out her phone. “Now, I’ve been saving some wonderful recipes for just such an occasion. Nothing says romance like a home-cooked meal.”

My stomach drops. “You want me to cook for her?”

“No, no.” Relief floods through me until she continues, “We want you to host a proper dinner party. Just the five of us.”

“The five…?”

“Us three, of course,” Dorothy explains, like it should be obvious. “To chaperone.”

“Chaperone?” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “We’re adults!”

“Exactly.” Iris nods sagely. “That’s why you need supervision.”

One of my snakes actually whimpers. I didn’t even know they could do that.

The sound sends an unexpected chill through me, a reminder that my snakes aren’t just decorative appendages but living creatures with their own reactions to stress.

In this moment, as my neighbors plan my romantic life with military precision, I feel the primal creature beneath my careful human facade stirring restlessly.

The urge to rear up to my full height, let my pupils shift to reptilian slits, and hiss with enough force to make them all step back wars with my ingrained politeness.

Instead, I clench my hands into fists and feel my skin temperature spike several degrees as I struggle to maintain the gentle librarian facade.

“Ladies, please.” Gathering what remains of my dignity, I try to sound firm. “Aspen and I are taking things slow. Very slow. Glacially slow.”

“Which is why you need our help!” Mabel brandishes her phone triumphantly. “Look, I found the perfect recipe for coq au vin. Nothing more romantic than French cooking.”

“I can barely make basic comfort food.”

“That’s why we’ll help, dear.” Dorothy’s already opening my cabinets, tutting at their contents. “Though we’ll need to upgrade your cookware. And your spice collection. And possibly your entire kitchen.”

“I have spices!”

Iris picks up a dusty container. “Salt isn’t a spice, Sebastian. And this expired during the Obama administration.”

My protests die as they divide into tasks with military precision. Mabel starts a shopping list that seems to include half the grocery store. Dorothy measures my table for a proper tablecloth. And Iris…

“Why are you eyeing my clothes?” I take a cautious step back.

“Because that sweater has seen better days. Possibly better decades.” She peers into my closet with the same expression she used for my spice rack. “Don’t you own anything that isn’t gray or navy?”

“Gray and navy are dignified colors!”

“They’re librarian colors.” With pursed lips, she adds, “Fortunately, I keep up with the latest trends and know where we can get you perfect clothes that will fit those wide shoulders right here in town.”

“How long have you been planning for this?”

“A good neighbor is always prepared. I think burgundy will bring out the copper tones in your snakes.”

My traitorous snakes perk up with interest.

“A week from tonight,” Mabel announces, looking up from her phone. “We’ll do it next Saturday evening. That gives us a week to prepare.”

“I haven’t even asked Aspen yet!”

Three pairs of eyes fix on me with varying degrees of exasperation.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Iris makes shooing motions. “Call her!”

“Text her,” Dorothy corrects. “Calling is too desperate.”

“Right.” Iris nods. “That went out in the nineties.”

“But don’t wait too long,” Mabel adds. “That seems uninterested.”

“And use a proper greeting,” Iris instructs. “None of that ‘hey’ business.”

My head spins as they spew rapid-fire dating advice. Even my snakes seem overwhelmed, coiling tighter against my scalp.

“Out!” The word bursts from me with unexpected force. “All of you, out! I need to… process.”

They file out with surprising compliance, but Iris pauses at the door. “We only want you to be happy, dear. You give so much to everyone else. It’s time you had someone who thinks you’re as special as we do.”

The sincerity in her voice deflates my irritation. “I know. But I can handle this.”

“Of course you can.” She pats my cheek. “But you don’t have to handle it alone.”

After they leave, I stare at my phone. The cursor blinks in an empty text message to Aspen. What do I even say? “My elderly neighbors have invaded my apartment with romantic intentions?” “Help, I’m being matchmaked to death?”

My reflection in my phone’s black screen shows exactly what I’m trying to hide—pupils slightly dilated, jaw clenched with barely restrained irritation, the line of my shoulders tense with power I don’t let myself use.

This is what I look like when the careful control slips, when the predatory nature I keep leashed starts to surface.

It’s a good reminder of why I work so hard to stay gentle, accommodating—because the alternative would terrify most humans.

My snakes sense my internal struggle, some rising aggressively while others attempt to soothe, and their conflicted movements mirror my own emotional state perfectly.

Finally, I type : Would you be interested in dinner at my place next Saturday evening? Fair warning: my neighbors insist on helping me cook, and tell me they’re staying to eat. They’re very enthusiastic. Possibly too enthusiastic. I’ll understand if you want to run away. Far away.

Her response comes quickly: Only if you promise to tell me EVERYTHING about how this conversation went down. Also, should I be concerned about food safety (if your chopstick skills are any indication?)

Relief floods through me. Yes, my neighbors are taking over my kitchen. Yes, this could end in complete disaster. But somehow, Aspen’s teasing makes it all seem manageable.

I text back: I promise to wash my hands and use proper utensils. You don’t have to worry about chopstick-related injuries—or kitchen fires. I pause a moment and then send another message : I hope.

The next few days pass in a whirlwind of cooking lessons (“No, Sebastian, that’s not how you julienne!”), wardrobe interventions (“Navy is not your only option!”), and increasingly detailed instructions about proper dinner party etiquette.

By Saturday afternoon, my apartment has been transformed.

The table Iris deemed “sadly bachelor-like” now sports an elegant tablecloth.

As I adjust the place settings, my thoughts get derailed as I imagine Aspen sitting here, how the candlelight will play across her face.

Every detail feels charged with possibility, with all the things I’m not supposed to be feeling for my fake girlfriend.

But it’s not just nervousness making my hands unsteady—it’s anticipation that goes deeper than human attraction. My enhanced senses are already imagining her scent filling my space, the sound of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin.

The predatory part of my nature that I keep so carefully contained whispers dangerous things about claiming territory, about showing her exactly what it means to be desired by something inhuman.

My snakes react to these thoughts by rising higher, their scales brightening with excitement, and I have to consciously will them back to a more civilized arrangement.

“The sauce needs stirring!” Mabel calls from the kitchen.

“The wine needs breathing!” Dorothy adds.

“Your hair needs… something.” Iris frowns at my snakes, who are doing their best to behave. “Can’t you make them more… romantic?”

“They’re snakes, not mood lighting!”

But even as I’m grousing, I capitulate and return to my bedroom to put my fanciest white satin bow ties on my snakes. It took forever because as soon as I tied the first tie, they were all obnoxiously preening in front of the mirror, making it hard to wrangle them into any semblance of order.

Each time I catch my reflection in the mirror, I’m struck by how different I look when I’m not trying to make myself smaller.

The anticipation of seeing Aspen has awakened something in my posture—shoulders back, spine straight, snakes arranged like a living crown rather than something to be hidden.

This is what I could look like all the time if I weren’t so afraid of intimidating people.

This is what a Gorgon looks like when he stops apologizing for existing.

The doorbell rings at exactly seven. My heart jumps as I open it to find Aspen in a simple green dress that makes her eyes sparkle. She takes in my apartment with raised eyebrows.

“Wow. When you said enthusiastic… Has this place been power-washed?”

“Sebastian!” Mabel bustles out of the kitchen. “Don’t leave her standing in the doorway! Where are your manners?”

What follows is simultaneously the most awkward and the most entertaining dinner of my life. My neighbors alternate between trying to be subtle matchmakers (they’re not) and sharing increasingly embarrassing stories about me.

“And then,” Dorothy wheezes through laughter, “the book cart just rolled right over the curb and down the street! Poor Sebastian chasing after it in the rain!”

“Luckily, it was just paperback donations,” I add, but Aspen’s giggle makes it hard to maintain my dignity.

“What about that time with Mrs. Bristol’s cat?” Mabel prompts.

“No cat stories!” But my snakes betray me by acting out the incident, making Aspen laugh harder.

Somehow, between the stories and the actually decent coq au vin (Mabel’s a miracle worker), something shifts. The awkwardness fades. Conversation flows. Even my snakes relax, though Evangeline keeps sneaking glances at Aspen when she thinks no one’s looking.

It’s only later, after my neighbors finally leave with far too many knowing looks, that I realize I’ve spent the whole evening watching Aspen’s smile and wondering if maybe my meddlesome neighbors aren’t entirely wrong about everything.

“That was…” Aspen lingers by the door, her eyes soft in the dim light.

“Mortifying?” I offer. “Overwhelming? A clear demonstration of why I need new neighbors?”

“I was going to say sweet.” She reaches up, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she might touch my face. Instead, she gently pats Evangeline, whose happy hiss startles her. She rapidly recovers to add, “They really care about you.”

“They’re impossible,” I grumble halfheartedly.

“Maybe.” Her smile turns teasing. “But they’re right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Burgundy does bring out the copper in your snakes.”

She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me standing in my doorway, touching the sweater I’d complained about for days, while my snakes writhe in approval.

Maybe jumping from the frying pan into the fire isn’t so bad if you have the right person to keep you from getting burned.

After Aspen leaves, I slump against my kitchen counter, emotionally drained from my neighbors’ matchmaking enthusiasm. But as the apartment settles into quiet, other needs make themselves known.

Aspen’s scent lingers in my space—on the coffee mug she used, in the air where she stood.

My snakes rise restlessly, seeking more of that intoxicating fragrance.

The predatory part of my nature that I keep so carefully controlled whispers dangerous suggestions: follow that scent trail, find her, claim what my instincts recognize as mine.

I force myself to remain still, but my body betrays the struggle.

My skin burns with barely contained heat, my pupils shift between human and reptilian, and when I catch my reflection in the dark window, I see something that would terrify most humans.

This is why I work so hard to stay gentle, controlled—because the creature beneath the surface wants things that nice librarians shouldn’t want.

My phone buzzes with a text from my brother Thaddeus. Good. Maybe talking to him will give me time to come to my senses.

Heard from the Silver Swimmers that you’re dating someone. They’re very excited about it. Should I be worried about your sanity? Get fitted for a tux? Find a plus-one for your upcoming nuptials?

It takes me a minute, but then I remember he teaches swimming to Iris, Mabel, and Dorothy at the Y in his course called the Silver Swimmers. I type back: Since when do you listen to the gossip network at the Y?

His response: Hard not to when Iris, Mabel, and Dorothy cornered me after swim class today. They want details about your “lovely girlfriend.” I told them you’d probably run screaming if they start planning your wedding.

Despite myself, I smile. They’re not that bad. Just… enthusiastic.

Thaddeus: Enthusiastic is one word for it. Dorothy asked if I thought you’d need help picking out rings. Apparently they have OPINIONS about what kind of engagement would suit a librarian.

I can practically hear his dry tone through the text. Please tell me you didn’t encourage them.

Well, bro, I may have mentioned that you’re terrible at romance and would definitely need supervision. Iris is already researching proposal venues that “showcase Sebastian’s gentle nature.” You’re welcome.

I groan out loud. You’re the worst brother ever.

The WORST brother would have told them about your secret stash of fantasy novels. I’m saving that ammunition for when I really need it.

The fact that he knows about my guilty pleasure reading material makes my snakes curl in embarrassment. How did you—never mind. I don’t want to know.

Relax. Your secret is safe. But seriously, Sebastian… if she makes you happy enough to tolerate Mabel’s matchmaking schemes, she must be pretty special.

Something warm settles in my chest at his genuine tone. She is.

Good. You deserve someone who sees past the bow ties to the man underneath. Even if that man has questionable taste in neckwear.

Despite myself, I’m grinning as I type back: Says the man who wears nothing but black leather.

At least I’m consistent. Your snakes change bow tie colors more often than some people change clothes.

The playful banter feels good—familiar in a way that reminds me why, despite everything, Thaddeus is still my favorite person to annoy.