Page 6 of Reptile Dysfunction (Harmony Glen #11)

Chapter Five

T had

The Silver Swimmers are early. That’s never a good sign—unless you enjoy being ambushed by geriatric gossip assassins.

“So,” Iris says, wading into the shallow end with a knowing smile, “how was your coffee date?”

“Wasn’t a date.” My snakes contradict my denial by happily flicking their tongues at the mere mention of last night. “It was an interview.”

“At your house,” Mabel adds with faux innocence. “On your motorcycle.”

Dorothy actually cackles. “We heard your offer to pick her up, dear. Very gallant.”

The rest of the class filters in, saving me from having to respond.

But as I lead them through their warm-up exercises, my traitorous mind keeps drifting to the way Sloane’s fingers felt against my snakes, how her body molded to mine on the ride home, the flash in her eyes when she challenged my intimidation abilities.

“Your snakes are doing that happy dance again,” Iris observes later, during cooldown stretches. “The one they do when one of your young students does a stroke particularly well.”

“They’re stretching,” I lie. “Like you’re supposed to be doing.”

“Mhmm.” She shares a look with her cohorts that I pretend not to see.

“And I suppose they’ll just be ‘stretching’ during her Pilates class later too?

” Mabel adds with a knowing smirk. “I saw the flyer on the bulletin board. She’s teaching a special introductory class this afternoon.

Just right for beginners… even reluctant ones. ”

Confusion must show on my face because Dorothy leans in, patting my arm. “She mentioned it yesterday during our chat. Said she’d love to see more men join her class. Seemed to be looking right at you when she said it.”

My snakes wiggle upon hearing this information, their curiosity embarrassingly obvious. One particularly nosy one at the crown of my head stretches as if considering the idea.

My head snaps up. “What?”

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Mabel’s innocent tone could curdle milk. “Some of us take her Wednesday afternoon class. Such an excellent instructor. Very hands-on with form correction.”

The mental image of Sloane’s hands adjusting people’s positions sends an unwelcome heat through my body. A few of my snakes give the Gorgon equivalent of a swoon. It’s embarrassing.

“You should join us at 4:30,” Dorothy suggests. “Good for that swimmer’s back of yours.”

“I don’t do Pilates.”

“Afraid of a challenge?” The voice comes from behind me, and my snakes whip around before my head can follow.

Sloane stands at the edge of the pool, wearing fitted black athletic wear that shows off every curve. Her hair is in that practical ponytail again, and she’s holding a rolled-up mat like it’s a weapon she’s prepared to use.

“Afraid of wasting my time,” I counter, but my snakes are already edging closer.

“Scared,” she translates with a smirk. “It’s okay; not everyone can handle it. Especially someone who spends all day in water. Dry land might be too… ambitious.”

The Nosy Trio watches our exchange like it’s premium cable.

“Four-thirty?” I hear myself ask before my brain can catch up with my mouth.

Her smile is pure victory. “Don’t be late. And wear something… stretchy.”

She walks away, and I swear her hips sway more than strictly necessary. My snakes, damn them, are drawn to her every movement.

“Not a word,” I warn the Trio of Turmoil, who are practically vibrating with glee. “Not. One. Word.”

They manage to stay quiet for almost thirty seconds.

“I have a spare mat you can borrow,” Iris offers helpfully. “It’s purple. Matches your snakes when they blush.”

“I hate all of you.”

But at 4:30 sharp, I’m walking into the Pilates studio wearing black athletic shorts and a fitted tank top that Sebastian got me for Christmas. My snakes are already reaching toward where Sloane stands, adjusting someone’s form, her hands gentle but firm as she guides their position.

“You came.” She sounds pleased, which makes my snakes—and my cock—sit up and take notice. “Set up in the back. You’ll need space.”

The implication that I’m too big for a standard mat space isn’t lost on me, but there’s no judgment in her tone. Just practicality.

For the first ten minutes, I’m almost convinced this won’t be so bad. The breathing exercises are basic, and the stretches are manageable. Then she starts incorporating terms like “Teaser” and “Boomerang,” and suddenly my body is being asked to move in ways it wasn’t designed for.

“Tuck your pelvis,” Sloane instructs, and suddenly she’s beside me, one hand on my lower back. “Engage your core.”

Every snake on my head freezes. Her touch is professional, but my body didn’t get the memo.

“Like this?” I manage, though my voice comes out rough as gravel.

“Almost.” She applies gentle pressure, and my spine automatically adjusts. “There. Feel the difference?”

What I feel is her body heat and the rustle of her breath and the way my snakes are absolutely useless at hiding their reaction to her proximity.

“Got it,” I say curtly, hoping she’ll move on to another student.

She does, but not before I catch the slight quirk of her lips that suggests she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

The rest of the class is an exercise in restraint. Every time she demonstrates a move, I’m treated to the sight of her strong, flexible body flowing through positions that my imagination immediately corrupts. By the time we reach the final stretch, I’m both physically and mentally exhausted.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” she says as other students file out. “Your core strength is impressive.”

“Swimming,” I explain, rolling up the borrowed mat. “Helps with everything except, apparently, whatever torture you call this.”

“Pilates.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “I got curious after last night. Did a little digging. Turns out Gorgon powers aren’t as automatic as you pretend they are.”

My snakes go still. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you can choose who feels it and who doesn’t. Which suggests that either your power doesn’t work on me…”

“Or?”

Her eyes meet mine, challenging. “Or you’re choosing not to use it.”

The studio suddenly feels very small, and my gym shorts very thin.

“Careful, Whitaker,” I warn, but my snakes are swaying toward her like she’s playing snake charmer music only they can hear. “You’re pushing dangerous boundaries.”

“Good thing I have an enforcer to keep me in line.” She shoulders her gym bag. “See you at seven?”

The question catches me off guard. “We didn’t schedule another interview.”

“No,” she agrees with a smile that makes my snakes absolutely giddy. “We didn’t.”

She walks out, leaving me to wonder exactly when I lost control of this situation. Though if I’m honest with myself, that probably happened the moment she walked into my pool wearing thousand-dollar shoes and asking questions nobody else dared—or cared—to ask.

“Well,” Iris says from the doorway where apparently all three members of the Snoopy Sisterhood have been watching, “that was better than cable.”

I grab my water bottle and stalk past them, my snakes still hopelessly oriented toward the spot where Sloane disappeared.

“Don’t forget to stretch extra tonight,” Dorothy calls after me. “Pilates uses muscles you didn’t know you had!”

She’s not wrong. But as I limp to my next class, I’m more concerned about the muscles in my chest that tighten every time I think about seven o’clock.

These feelings are dangerous. Sloane isn’t just a beautiful woman with a talent for asking the right questions—she’s the mayor’s daughter, a journalist with an agenda, and exactly the kind of complication I’ve spent five years avoiding.

I’ve been built to intimidate. To protect.

Not to want.

And definitely not to want someone who sees too much.

By the time I finish my final session and leave the Y, the sun is already setting. My back aches from the day’s activities, my snakes are doing that ridiculous swaying thing they do when they’re looking forward to something pleasant, and I’ve stopped pretending I have a choice in what happens next.

These feelings are dangerous. Sloane isn’t just a beautiful woman with a talent for asking the right questions—she’s the mayor’s daughter, a journalist with an agenda, and exactly the kind of complication I’ve spent five years avoiding.

But as I walk to my motorcycle, checking the time on my phone, I know the truth: seven o’clock can’t come fast enough. And when I pull up to her gate, my snakes will be reaching for her before she even climbs on behind me.

Sloane Whitaker’s danger isn’t that she’s unafraid of me. It’s that she makes me wish I were the kind of monster who deserved her trust.