Page 3 of Hiss and Tell (Harmony Glen #2)

Chapter Three

A spen

The children’s section always takes my breath away for a moment—not just because of the cozy reading nooks and colorful displays, but because of Sebastian.

The world was shocked five years ago when the existence of monsters, who had been living in hiding in our world for centuries, came to light.

We call it Revelation Day, and I recall it as though it was yesterday.

It rocked all of humanity for a hot minute.

But somehow… life went on. As they blended into human society, the monster headlines gradually disappeared.

They were soon replaced by the latest political shenanigans of our leaders.

Then everyone on Earth had to learn how to deal with the changes.

For some reason, our town has more than its share of Others.

I became friendly with a few, but it wasn’t until I began taking Milo to storytime that the thought of actually dating a monster occurred to me.

It wasn’t an abstract concept, though. My thoughts revolved around a certain gorgeous Gorgon librarian.

Today his snakes wear perfectly coordinated navy bow ties—each one meticulously positioned and clearly waterproofed with some kind of special treatment that makes them gleam under the library lights. It appears that he takes more care and precision than most people put into their wedding attire.

“Mr. Sebastian!” Milo breaks free from my hand, racing toward his favorite librarian. “Look, Steggy has a cape today!”

Sebastian turns, and something in my chest does a funny little flip. The effect is immediate and overwhelming—my pulse quickens as I take in the full scope of him.

He’s not just well over six feet tall; he commands space in a way that makes every man I’ve ever known seem diminished by comparison.

His shoulders are broad, and those strong hands, when turning picture book pages, never fail to capture my attention.

The way he moves, deliberate, fluid, and devastating, makes my mouth go dry.

His face is perfectly, handsomely human, well, except for the head full of snakes that emerge from his skull and act like live hair.

When his gaze meets mine across the children’s section, the world narrows to just that connection, and I have to take a slow, deep breath to ground myself.

“A caped dinosaur? Now that’s something special.” His voice has the same calming quality as his presence, deep but gentle. One of his snakes flicks its tongue out happily, making Milo giggle.

The other children settle onto cushions, parents finding spots along the walls. Milo tugs me toward his favorite poof, right up front. “Daddy’s coming after storytime,” he announces to Sebastian. “We’re going to see real dinosaur bones this weekend!”

Something flickers across Sebastian’s face—concern?—but his smile never wavers. “That sounds exciting. Should we start with a dinosaur story today?”

The next twenty minutes are pure magic. Sebastian doesn’t just read stories; he brings them to life.

As Sebastian’s voice drops into what must be his storyteller cadence, something extraordinary happens. His eyes widen in what looks like genuine surprise as tiny sparkles of light begin to dance above the open book.

It’s not just the magic that captures my attention; it’s the way his entire being transforms. His snakes rise higher, their movements becoming more fluid and hypnotic, like they’re conducting an invisible orchestra.

His pupils dilate to reptilian slits when he concentrates, and I catch a glimpse of something predatory and ancient beneath his gentle librarian exterior.

There’s a low, subsonic rumble in his voice that I feel more than hear, something that makes the air itself seem to thicken and pulse with otherworldly energy. For a moment, he seems almost startled by his own magic, his snakes swaying with what appears to be amazement.

“Oh!” he breathes softly, and I catch the wonder in his voice as a translucent brachiosaurus shimmers into existence above our heads. The children gasp in delight, but Sebastian looks just as mesmerized as they do, his gaze following the spectral creature with something like awe.

More dinosaurs appear: tiny pterodactyls that circle overhead, a friendly triceratops that nods at the children.

Sebastian’s expression shifts between concentration and amazement, as if he’s discovering this ability for the first time.

His snakes mirror his emotions, curling and uncurling with excitement.

“How does he do that?” whispers one of the mothers behind me, but Sebastian himself seems to be wondering the same thing, his eyes bright with discovery as he guides the story forward.

The magical creatures dance and play above us, bringing the tale of friendship and acceptance to vivid life.

Several children gasp and point, while parents fumble for their phones to capture the impossible.

“Is this real?” asks Tyler, reaching up toward a tiny pterodactyl that swoops just out of reach.

“Oh my goodness,” breathes one mother. “Are those actually… how is he doing that?”

“Magic,” Milo announces with the absolute certainty of a four-year-old. “Mr. Sebastian has real magic.”

Other children chime in with excited whispers: “Can you make a T-Rex?” “Do one that roars!” “Make them dance!”

Sebastian’s amazement transforms into something like joy as he watches the children’s wonder. His snakes sway with what appears to be pride, as he guides a gentle brachiosaurus to nuzzle against Grace’s outstretched hand. She squeals with delight.

By the time the story reaches its happy ending, every child in the circle is completely captivated, and several parents are whispering among themselves about “did you see that?” and “how is this possible?” The magical creatures slowly fade as the story concludes, leaving us all blinking in the aftermath of wonder.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Maybe Mrs. Breckenridge has more work for me. But when I glance at the screen, my heart stops.

Can’t make pickup today. Something came up. Tell the kid sorry.

My reaction rips out of me before I can stop it: “FUCK!”

The silence that follows is deafening. Sebastian stops mid-sentence, the book still open in his massive hands. Every parent in the room is staring. Milo’s eyes are wide with shock.

And just like that, I know. This is going to be one of those moments that splits time into before and after. I can feel it in the horrified gasps of nearby parents, see it in Sebastian’s professionally neutral expression, hear it in the whispers already starting.

The carefully balanced plates I’ve been spinning for so long are about to come crashing down. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.

“Daddy’s not coming?” Milo’s voice wobbles as he processes both the bad word and what it means. His face crumples as the implications hit him.

Sebastian clears his throat softly. “Perhaps we should take a brief—”

“I said a bad word.” The words tumble out. “I am so sorry. Beyond sorry. I’ll just… we’ll just…” Standing up feels like moving through molasses, my legs somehow both shaky and numb.

“Mama?” Milo’s hand catches mine, anchoring me to the spot. “But the dinosaur museum…”

One of the other mothers—Katie? Cathy?—whispers loudly to her friend, “This is why some people shouldn’t—”

“Ms. Walker.” Sebastian’s voice cuts through the mounting chaos with gentle authority. His snakes have gone completely still, which somehow makes him more imposing. “May I speak with you in my office? Mrs. Reyes, would you mind finishing the last few pages of the story?”

The mom who always has a smile appears totally unfazed by my outburst. She nods happily, already reaching for the book. But Milo’s grip on my hand tightens.

“Bug, I need you to stay with—”

“No!” His face flushes red, tears threatening. “You said Daddy promised! You said—”

Someone mutters about “discipline” and “standards.” The room starts to spin slightly at the edges.

“Milo.” Sebastian crouches down to eye level with my son, his massive frame somehow making the motion look graceful.

“I have a very special job that needs doing. See that shelf over there? The one with all the dinosaur books? I think they might be out of order. Could you and Steggy check for me? It’s a job only a real dinosaur expert can handle. Can you sort them by dinosaur type?”

Milo’s chin quivers, but the responsibility in the request draws his shoulders back slightly. “Even… even the big kid books?”

“Especially those. Your mom and I will be back shortly.” Sebastian’s smile is warm and genuine. “Think you can do that for me?”

A hesitant nod. Then Milo’s hand slips from mine as he walks with wounded dignity toward the shelves, Super Steggy clutched close.

Sebastian straightens, gesturing toward a door marked “Staff Only.” Every step feels like walking the plank, the weight of judgmental stares burning into my back.

The meeting with the accounting firm flashes through my mind.

Today at 5:00 PM. It’s my chance of dropping one job, at finally getting ahead instead of just barely keeping up.

All probably ruined now, because who wants to hire someone who screams obscenities in a children’s library?

Sebastian’s office is smaller than expected, barely big enough for a desk and two chairs. A wall of children’s artwork adds color to the institutional beige paint. I recognize Milo’s crayon dinosaur from last month; it’s prominently displayed.

“Please, sit.” As Sebastian settles behind his desk, his elbow catches the edge of his water glass, sending it tumbling across the desktop. Water spreads across his papers as he lunges to catch it, his massive frame suddenly seeming too large for the small space.

“Oh, no—I’m so sorry,” he mutters, frantically grabbing tissues from a box to mop up the mess. His snakes writhe in apparent embarrassment as he tries to salvage the soggy incident report forms. “I don’t usually… this doesn’t normally…”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, helping him move books out of the water’s path. “Happens to everyone.”

But his cheeks have darkened, and I notice how carefully he moves after that, like someone used to worrying about taking up too much space.

“I am so sorry.” The words rush out again. “I know it’s inexcusable. I’ll write an apology to the board, take whatever sensitivity training—”

He holds up one large hand. “Ms. Walker—”

“It’s just been a really rough day, which I know isn’t an excuse, but my ex just canceled on Milo…

again, and I have this huge meeting later that could change everything, and I’ve been up since—” The room blurs as tears threaten.

No. Absolutely not. Crying in front of the hot librarian is not going to happen.

Even if his concern looks genuine. Even if something about his presence makes the panic recede slightly.

“Ms. Walker.” Firmer this time. “I understand that circumstances can be… overwhelming. However, the library does have a code of conduct.”

“Of course.” Straightening my spine, I brace for the ban I know is coming. “How long?”

“Three months, I’m afraid. It’s the standard penalty for disruptive behavior and inappropriate language.” He actually sounds regretful. “The board is very strict about maintaining a family-friendly environment.”

Three months. No library. No storytime. No safe space for Milo to escape when things get hard. No calm presence of the gorgeous librarian who somehow makes everything feel less chaotic.

Wait, what? No. Focus on the actual problem.

“I understand.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “But Milo did nothing wrong. Surely, if I have a friend or neighbor bring—”

“I’m so sorry, but the rules are specific. I wish I could let Milo attend; he’s a great kid. But I can’t.”

I heave a breath, and it’s only when I listen to myself that I realize my breathing is as quavery as Milo’s.

“I, uh, understand. We’ll just… we’ll find something else to do during that time slot.”

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Walker.” He shuffles some papers on his desk, not quite meeting my eyes. “If there was anything I could do, I would.”

“Right. Thank you.” Standing up feels like admitting defeat. “I should go collect Milo.”

“Ms. Walker?” Something in his tone makes me pause at the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your ex’s cancellation. Milo talks about him often during storytime.”

The kindness in his voice nearly breaks me. “Yeah, well. Something came up. Something always comes up.”

“Would you like me to speak with Milo? Sometimes children find it easier to process disappointment when—”

“No, thank you. We’ll be fine. We always are.” The handle turns under my grip. “I really am sorry about the disruption.”

“I know.” His voice follows me out. “I hope to see you both back in three months.”

A quick glance at the storytime circle tells me most of the yoga moms and their kids are gone—thankfully. Milo sits cross-legged by the dinosaur books, Super Steggy’s cape now serving as a tissue.

“Come on, Bug.” Somehow, I keep my voice gentle. “Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t take my offered hand. Doesn’t skip or chatter as we walk out. Just clutches his dinosaur and tries to be brave, like his mama taught him.

The library doors close behind us with a quiet click that sounds like everything falling apart.

At least one good thing happens. On our walk home, I get a text from Radcliffe and Associates.

It begins and ends with apologies in all caps.

The CEO had an emergency and had to postpone.

That’s lucky, because there was no way I’d be able to keep my composure during the meeting.

This way, I’ll be in shape to wow them when we do meet.

I just need to weather this crisis before that happens.