Page 20 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Nineteen

S ebastian

We’re riding high from the father-son breakfast success when everything falls apart at once.

That’s when I discover the children’s computer terminal has died overnight.

The screen shows nothing but a blue error message before going completely black. All my attendance records, program statistics, and community impact data—everything I need for tomorrow’s budget presentation to the city council—is trapped inside a corrupted hard drive.

“No, no, no.” I frantically press keys, hoping for a miracle, but nothing happens. My snakes writhe with anxiety as all the confidence from this morning evaporates.

Mrs. Randall appears at my desk with her clipboard and that particular expression that means trouble. “Technical difficulties, Mr. Fangborn? How unfortunate, especially with your presentation tomorrow.”

“Just a minor glitch,” I manage, though my sanctuary effect is struggling to maintain calm while I’m anything but.

“I do hope this won’t impact your ability to demonstrate the value of children’s programming. The city council values preparedness and professionalism.”

After she leaves, I stare at the dead computer screen, panic rising in my chest. Without those statistics, my presentation will be nothing but empty promises. The board is already looking for reasons to cut children’s programming, and this hands them the perfect excuse.

My phone buzzes with a text from Aspen: How did everything go?

Before I can respond, Jenny appears at my desk with her tablet and an expression that means more bad news.

“Sebastian, I just got a call from the city manager. They’ve moved up all budget presentations to this afternoon due to an emergency council session tomorrow about the water main repairs.”

My coffee cup hits the desk with a clink. “This afternoon? But the presentation was scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Three o’clock sharp. And Sebastian?” Her expression grows more serious. “Mrs. Randall and two other board members plan to attend ‘to provide input on library priorities.’”

After Jenny leaves, I sit in stunned silence.

I look at the clock. 10:30. Four and a half hours to recover my data, rebuild my presentation, and somehow convince the city council that children’s programming deserves funding.

All while processing the emotional high of this morning’s success with Milo and the growing weight of what failure means for all of us.

I text Aspen back: Computer crashed with all my presentation data. Budget meeting moved to 3 PM today. Small crisis.

Her response comes immediately: On my way.

You don’t have to , I start to text back, then delete it. She’s already proven she shows up when needed. The least I can do is let her.

Twenty minutes later, Aspen arrives with her laptop bag and a determined expression.

“It’s my day off from my two jobs. My online obligations can wait until later, and I asked Miss Lee if Milo could stay late at Little Dragons this afternoon,” she says, settling at my desk.

“Miss Lee said they’re working on art projects, so he’s happily occupied. ”

Aspen sets her laptop on my desk and starts connecting cables to the crashed terminal. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

I explain about the system crash, the lost data, and the moved timeline. As I talk, Aspen nods thoughtfully, her fingers already flying over diagnostic programs.

“The hard drive isn’t completely corrupted,” she says after twenty minutes. “Just the file allocation table. I can recover most of your data, but it’ll take a few hours.”

Relief floods through me so powerfully that my sanctuary effect pulses, making several patrons look up from where they’re going through the stacks.

“There,” she says after two nerve-wracking hours. She pulls up the recovered files and announces, “Attendance records, parent feedback, program evaluations—it’s all here.”

“How can I ever thank you?”

“You already did. This morning. With Milo.” Her voice is soft. “You showed up when he needed you most. This is me returning the favor.”

The next hour becomes a blur of activity. Aspen organizes the recovered data into clear, compelling charts. Jenny quietly came in with a plate of sandwiches and two coffees. We ate while Aspen worked and asked me questions about how I wanted to present the material.

“The numbers tell a good story,” Aspen says, reviewing the final presentation. “But Mrs. Randall isn’t really interested in statistics, is she?”

“She wants to cut programming because she thinks it attracts the ‘wrong kind’ of families,” I admit.

“Families like mine.” She can’t keep the hurt out of her voice.

“Families who need this place most. Single parents, struggling families, kids who don’t have safe spaces anywhere else.”

Aspen looks up from the screen, something fierce in her expression. “Then we show them what those families look like. Real people, real stories.”

“What do you mean?”

“Video testimonials. Parents and kids explaining what the library programs mean to them.” She’s already opening editing software. “We film them now, and then edit them into the presentation.”

“But it’s 1:30. There’s no time—”

“There’s always time for what matters.” She pulls out her phone. “I’m texting Tyler’s parents, Miss Lee, and some of the other regular families. Anyone who might be able to get here in the next half hour.”

As if summoned by her determination, people start arriving. Dave brings Tyler and explains how library programs helped his son overcome social anxiety. Miss Lee comes with two of her students who are library regulars, talking about how Sebastian’s storytimes prepare children for school success.

Mrs. Moskowitz arrives, having left the store in the care of the assistant manager. “That young man helped my grandson learn to read,” she tells Aspen’s camera. “When the schools couldn’t reach him, Mr. Sebastian found a way.”

Each testimonial is short but powerful. Real families talking about real impact. Children demonstrating confidence gained, parents describing support received, and community members explaining why this place matters.

By 2:30, we have a presentation that tells the complete story—not just numbers, but the human reality behind those statistics.

“This is incredible,” I tell Aspen as I pack up the materials. Aspen is still desperately trying to locate a few more lost files. “You turned a disaster into something stronger than I ever could have created alone.”

“I’m happy to help you,” she says, and the words carry weight beyond our fake dating arrangement.

The library is quiet now except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of Aspen searching for recovered files.

I should be focused on the presentation, but instead I’m hyperaware of every small sound she makes—the soft click of her keyboard, the way she hums under her breath when concentrating.

“Found another one,” she announces as though she just slew a dragon with her bare hands. When I lean over her shoulder to look at the screen, the movement brings me close enough to catch her scent—something warm and clean with an edge of the vanilla lip balm she always wears.

“That’s the summer reading program data,” I say, unable to hide my excitement. “I thought we’d lost all of it.”

She turns to respond, and suddenly we’re face to face, mere inches apart. Her eyes widen slightly, and I can feel her breath against my skin. Evangeline dips down to gently brush against Aspen’s cheek in what looks like an accident, but feels deliberate.

“Sebastian…” Aspen’s voice is barely a whisper.

The space between us seems charged with possibility. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. I start to lean closer, my hand moving to cup her face—

The main library door slams open with a bang, followed by Mrs. Moskowitz calling, “Sebastian, dear! I brought you some of those cookies you like!”

We spring apart so quickly that Aspen’s chair rolls backward into the desk. My snakes immediately arrange themselves into their most formal, innocent configuration as Mrs. Moskowitz bustles into the children’s section.

“Oh!” She stops short, taking in our flushed faces and obvious guilt. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“Just making last-minute corrections to the presentation,” I manage, while Aspen suddenly becomes very interested in her laptop screen.

But Mrs. Moskowitz’s knowing smile suggests she’s not fooled for a second.