Page 3 of Reptile Dysfunction (Harmony Glen #11)

Chapter Three

T had

The coffee sits untouched on the table in front of me—black with one sugar, just like she ordered. And it’s getting cold, because Sloane Whitaker is officially twelve minutes late.

“You’ve checked your phone four times in two minutes,” Iris observes from the next table as she sips smugly from her cup. Of course, the Silver Swimmers, the Triumvirate of Trouble, are here. The universe wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m not waiting for anyone,” I lie. “Just checking the time.”

Dorothy snorts into her chai latte. “Then why did you order two coffees, dear?”

My snakes twitch in irritation, a few craning toward the elderly Gossip Guild with what I hope reads as menace—and not middle-school embarrassment.

“Don’t you three have somewhere else to be?”

“Not until six-thirty,” Mabel says cheerfully. “Knitting club today.”

Before I can mention that none of them have their knitting bags with them, the door chimes.

Sloane walks in wearing jeans, a crisp white button-down, and flats so sensible they practically file a tax return.

Her honey-blonde hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she carries a messenger bag instead of what I assume was yesterday’s designer purse.

The snakes at my temples rise with interest. Backstabbers, every last one of them.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me. “My supervisor at the newspaper called and wanted to review some line edits. It was one of those tasks I thought wouldn’t take more than five minutes. I apologize.”

She sounds breezy, but the way she adjusts her bag—setting it neatly beside her like it’s shielding her—tells me she’s not here just for a puff piece.

“Excuses already?” My tone’s harsher than it needs to be, but I don’t walk it back. “Not a promising start to your hard-hitting exposé.”

If my tone bothers her, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she gestures toward the coffee. “You remembered. I’m impressed.”

“Just being polite.” I nudge the cup in her direction. “Harder when you’re late.”

She reaches for her wallet. “I distinctly recall offering to buy you coffee, Gorgon. Are you afraid of being in debt to a Whitaker?”

“I was thirsty. Waited thirteen minutes and ten seconds. Your loss.”

“And here I thought enforcer types honored deals down to the decimal.” She takes a deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t renege on deals. Next time, I’m paying. Tell your snakes to keep their hissy fits to themselves.”

Several of them rear up, tongues flicking. Her grin goes feral.

“Always this pushy, or am I getting the VIP treatment?” I ask, my own grin trying to break free.

She leans forward, lowering her voice. “Stick around and find out.”

“Clock’s ticking.” Despite the warning in my tone, my snakes slink forward, curious traitors that they are.

She cocks her head. “Such a grumpy, big, bad enforcer—serving coffee and teaching kids how not to drown. Adorable.” She becomes more serious as she adds, “Quite a change from keeping monsters hidden.”

All of my snakes go still.

The smile fades from my face. “We did what was necessary.”

She doesn’t flinch. “We did what kept people breathing. That’s all that mattered.”

“Whatever kept both sides safe.” I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. My t-shirt—clean but well-worn—stretches against muscle that once served a purpose beyond aesthetic appeal.

“You understand this isn’t the feel-good Revelation story your father wants, right?

There were no monster community bake sales before humans knew we existed. ”

“I’m aware.” She pulls out a small digital recorder. “May I?” She nods toward the recorder.

I glance at the Busybody Brigade, who’ve stopped even pretending not to listen. Iris is openly writing notes on a napkin.

“Not here.”

“Where, then?”

“My place.” It’s out before I’ve fully thought it through. “Seven-forty-five. After my last class.”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face, followed by something that might be professional curiosity or personal interest—hard to distinguish in journalists, especially attractive ones with agendas. “Text me the address?”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll pick you up.” The shocked expression on her face makes me want to press. “Unless you’re scared of the big, bad monster on a motorcycle.”

“Pick me up in what, exactly?”

This woman is cautious—rightfully so. “Not in what. On what. My motorcycle.”

She doesn’t even blink. “I’ll need a helmet.”

“I have a spare.”

“Sloane,” Iris calls, clearly fishing for an invitation to join the conversation. “It’s such a treat to have you back home after your sojourn to the big city. How is your mother’s recovery?”

“She’s better, thank you. Turns out she was allergic to the metal in her first hip. So she’s back to square one. The new physical therapist has been a big help, though.”

“Glad she’s doing better,” Mabel says with a smile.

Dorothy leans forward conspiratorially. “We were so sorry to hear about your breakup with that nice lawyer from the city. What was his name, girls?”

“David,” Iris supplies helpfully. “Such a shame. He seemed very accomplished.”

To her credit, Sloane doesn’t flinch. “Career paths diverged. It happens.”

My snakes sit taller at this information, their curiosity embarrassingly obvious. One particularly nosy one at the crown of my head stretches toward Sloane as if for a better look.

“Behave,” I mutter, and the snake retreats, but not without a soft hiss.

“Your hair has opinions,” Sloane observes, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“They’re not known for their subtlety.” I finish my coffee in one gulp. “Seven-forty-five. Wear something practical. Nothing that costs more than my bike.”

“How much is that?”

“Twelve grand, give or take.”

Her lips quirk upward. “For you, Gorgon? I’ll dress down.”

Something about the way she says it sends a dangerous heat darting through me, which my snakes respond to with entirely too much enthusiasm. Several sway in what can only be described as a pleased manner.

As she leaves, my turncoat snakes turn to watch her go. The Silver Swimmers don’t even try to hide their delight.

“She seems lovely,” Iris says with exaggerated innocence.

“She seems like trouble,” I correct.

Dorothy pats my arm. “The best ones always are, dear.”

By seven-fifteen, I’m second-guessing my decision.

My home—a converted water tower on the outskirts of town—isn’t exactly designed for entertaining.

It’s a space built for one very tall Gorgon who values privacy and doesn’t mind climbing the spiral staircase that leads to the cylindrical living quarters.

After a quick shower to wash off the chlorine, I assess the living area with fresh eyes.

Brass pipes snake along the curved walls, some functional, others purely decorative.

Vintage pressure gauges and copper fixtures catch the late afternoon light.

The massive iron gear that once controlled the water flow now serves as an industrial coffee table, its teeth softened by age and polishing.

Edison bulbs in brass cages cast a warm glow over the leather furniture and exposed brick. It’s a strange mix of Victorian sensibility and industrial functionality—exactly what you’d expect from a Gorgon who appreciates both form and function.

The circular main floor with its round windows is divided into open sections: a kitchen with copper fixtures along one curve, a living space with saddle-brown leather couches and industrial lighting, and a wall of bookshelves that would make my librarian brother proud.

The exposed brick walls curve gracefully, following the tower’s original architecture, while a narrow staircase leads to the bedroom loft above.

It’s not conventional, but it’s mine. One of the few places in Harmony Glen that can accommodate someone of my size and species. And after living in hiding my whole life, I can’t complain about the view.

At seven-thirty, I’m on my Harley, heading toward the address Sloane texted—her father’s house. I expected a McMansion that looks like every other expensive, soulless house on the block. But the house is one of the oldest in the neighborhood and has a certain antique charm.

She’s waiting by the gate when I pull up, dressed in this afternoon’s jeans paired with a simple black t-shirt and leather jacket. Her hair is still in that practical ponytail, but something about seeing her outside the newspaper context makes my throat unexpectedly dry.

“Right on time,” she says, appraising the motorcycle with interest rather than apprehension. “Nice bike.”

I hand her the spare helmet. “Ever ridden before?”

“‘Fraid not.”

“Rules are simple. Lean with me, not against me. Hold on to my waist, not my shoulders.” My snakes shift beneath my helmet, restless at the thought of her arms around me. “And try not to interview me while we’re moving.”

She laughs—a genuine sound that catches me off guard. “I think I can control my journalistic impulses for a ten-minute ride.”

“We’ll see about that.”

She puts on the helmet, climbs on behind me, and without hesitation wraps her arms around my waist. The contact hits like an electric current that runs straight from her hands to the base of my spine. My snakes purr—yes, purr—beneath my helmet.

“They make noise in there?” she asks, her voice muffled.

“Constantly.” I start the engine. “It’s like living with gossiping roommates. Ready?”

Her arms tighten slightly. “Ready.”

The ride to my place takes twelve minutes, during which Sloane proves to be a natural passenger—leaning into curves at just the right moment and adjusting her weight seamlessly with mine.

By the time we pull up to the water tower, my body is humming with an awareness that has nothing to do with motorcycle vibrations.

“This is yours?”

I nod.

She lets out a low whistle. “It’s weird. I love it.”

She hands me the helmet, then reworks her hair tie. “How long have you had it?”