To Hiss or to Kiss
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Authors: Katya Armock
Tags: #Paranormal Romance, #Paranormal Erotic Romance
Table of Contents
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To Hiss or to Kiss
Katya Armock
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).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
To Hiss or to Kiss
Copyright © 2013 by Katya Armock
ISBN: 978-1-939194-72-5
Edited by Abigail Nathan
Cover by Iris Hunter and Annie Melton
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: March 2013
~ Dedication ~
For my husband, who made it possible for me to write this book. For Kristin, who pushed me to enter the contest that got the ball rolling. And for Gracie, one of the amazing animals I’ve met along the way.
In memory of Sundance.
Love is an act of will—namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.
—M. Scott Peck
Chapter One
“I can’t believe the lazy asses who drop their animals here. At least these had enough balls to actually come in.”
My head snaps up to scan the crowded lobby at the humane society from my vantage point behind the intake desk. I expect to see people in an uproar after that comment, delivered as it was by a derisive male voice with a faint Caribbean accent. But everything looks normal for a group of people who are surrendering their animals to a shelter. A frazzled woman with a crying kid sits in a chair along the wall, trying to fill out paperwork and hold a puppy on a leash. Next to her, a tense, guilty-looking middle-aged man has a cat carrier by his feet. Two people stand in line, one talking to the intake staff member.
By the entrance a tall—and hotter than hell—man in jeans and a simple green button-down shirt has a disgusted look on his face as he surveys the room. I can’t look away from his brilliant green eyes.
OK, I’m just crazy. Obviously that comment wasn’t out loud or someone would be reacting. It’s normal for me to hear animals talk. In fact, I was conversing mind to mind with the tuxedo kitten in my hands just before that comment broke in. And it certainly wasn’t the kitten who just said something so blatantly human. So either I just heard a human in my head for the first time or I’m hearing imaginary voices in my head now. My gut tells me it’s tall, dark, and brooding. And I’m staring. Memorizing every inch of him from his haunting eyes to his beautifully sculpted hands, which I can’t help but imagine caressing my skin.
I look down. Whatever is going on, it’s freaking me out, as is the need coiling
down there
. I throw up my mental barriers in a flash. When I look up again, the man in question is staring at me and appears almost as confused and freaked out as I imagine I do. Just as I’m thinking, Look away, look away now, and act cool, he shakes his head as if to clear it and steps into line.
This is so weird. But what does any sane person who just heard the wrong species of voice in her head and is insanely attracted to said person do in the face of weirdness? Carry on right where I left off taking the cute kitten to the medical staff to test for FIV and feline leukemia and to vaccinate. This little one should be up for adoption in a few hours if all goes well.
I walk slowly to the door leading to the hallway that will take me back to the medical department. I’m trying to look nonchalant, but what I really want to do is run—fast—and hide. What if my mental barriers aren’t working? I don’t normally have to worry about blocking humans. What if that guy with silky black hair is listening to me think that right now? Oh, God.
“Jesus, Chloe, are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. And give me that kitten before you drop it.” Barb, the shelter’s forty-five-year-old head veterinary technician, grabs the kitten as I walk into her work area in medical. She stares shrewdly at me. “Good thing kittens are resilient.”
I redouble my efforts to look normal, but I can’t control the need to run my hands through my naturally blonde hair like I always do when I’m upset.
“So, you’re not OK.” Barb’s teasing smile fades as she puts the kitten in a holding cage, the kitten making a disgruntled mewl at her abrupt landing. Barb puts one arm around my shoulders and the other on my forehead as she pushes me until I’m leaning against the counter by the computer. “No fever, not too clammy. Still, seems you need to call it a day. I can get one of the other volunteers to drop you home. I’m not sure you should drive.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” I start to stand. “Just had a moment out there.”
Barb shoots me a skeptical, assessing look with her piercing brown eyes but backs up a bit to let me stand. She’s one of the few people at the shelter who know about my ability. I’m hoping she will just think it’s an animal in trouble, but I’ve never tried to run from an animal before. “But you’re right. I should go home.” Yes, yes, get away from the mind reader in the next room. God, he looked good in those jeans. Fuck.
“OK.” Barb looks like she might protest if I take any steps on my own, so I scramble past her and scurry out the door before she can think twice.
“Yes, definitely I should go. See ya, Barb.”
“Chloe, wait, are you sure you’re OK to drive?”
I pretend not to hear and keep walking down the hall. I escape around a corner to head to the exit, making a beeline to the volunteer room to grab my purse. I keep my eyes averted so no other volunteers or staff try to stop me to chat, all the while chanting “leave, leave, exit, leave”
in my head
.
Anything to keep me from picturing gorgeous eyes and broad shoulders.
I’m practically running out the exit and across the parking lot. I just know people are staring, but I can’t stop until I’m in my car—a ten-year-old green Honda Civic—my breathing fast and wheezy. Damn panic. Damn sexy man getting into my head—literally and figuratively. I lightly bang my head against the steering wheel, groaning and trying to get my body and thoughts under control. Get it together, Chlo. Get it fucking together.
After a few seconds, minutes, I don’t know, I do just that. And then I drive home—really fast. Luckily, I don’t get a speeding ticket.
* * *
Talking with animals has never scared me. It is as normal to me as breathing. Plus, animals aren’t as judgmental and preachy as humans tend to be. For instance, they don’t care about my ridiculously pale skin and blonde hair, which are courtesy of my half-Scandinavian roots; nor do they care that I’m only five foot four—not sure where that came from, since both my parents are/were tall—or that I could stand to lose twenty pounds, which probably won’t happen anytime soon since that would mean giving up ice cream and actually exercising on a regular basis. I know people say it’s once you’re married that you let yourself go, but the extra weight has never stopped me from finding a guy to scratch the itch when I can’t do it myself.
And that thought is exactly why no humans should ever be rolling around in my head.
I’m lying in bed now, having texted Barb to let her know I got home OK—sometimes the impersonal nature of texting is a godsend!—before turning off my phone.
Maybe it was a weird anomaly. And maybe I will get those green eyes and their look of shocked confusion out of my head. I’ve never flipped out for a guy before. I can count the number of men I’ve actually dated on one hand. And being in love? A big fat zero, which is just the way I like it. Romantic love is greatly exaggerated. I’ve met only a handful of people who seem to have anything closely resembling it. I stand by my one-night-stand policy.
The more important question is why am I more freaked out that I’m attracted to a guy than the fact I heard him in my head?
The doorbell rings and I groan. I know it’s only seven thirty in the evening and I shouldn’t be in bed yet, but I am and I don’t want to answer. I want to hide. Plus, my cats—Sashi, all black, and Enoki, orange and white—are happily sleeping on me. I don’t normally keep an ongoing connection to an animal, but with my own pets, I keep my barrier down. So I picked up on the undercurrent of concern in their slowly blinking stares when I first got into bed. Once settled, Sashi wasn’t shy about informing me that mostly they’re just happy I’m in bed so early so they can sleep on me.
Cats.
There’s another ring of the doorbell and I freeze, holding my breath like I’m pretending to be asleep, like I used to when my dad would come and check on me when I was a child. It seemed to work then, so maybe it will make whoever is at my door go away too. It might just be a random solicitor or someone trying to tell me how to vote on whatever issue. And I’m all the way upstairs in my rented townhome, so there are no signs of life downstairs.
But, no, the doorbell chimes a third time. There’s a pause, and then I’m barraged with the doorbell dinging over and over again. Only one person would do that, and she isn’t going away—especially since she’s probably here at Barb’s behest. My best friend, Naomi. She has a key, and it doesn’t take long before I hear the door opening.