To Hiss or to Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page A

pauses, his breathing shallow, in and out, in and out. Or maybe that’s me. And then he steps back toward me, offering his hand again. “My name is Jorge MacKay and I live down the street. I know these people aren’t aboveboard, and I worried when I saw you driving without your lights on.” He says it quickly, the anxiety clear in his voice. He speaks as if he’s a gentleman despite the rough way he handled me. Not that I minded that so much.
    I fall back on humor as I reach to give his hand a quick shake. I find I don’t want to let go but make myself. “Jorge MacKay? Didn’t your parents realize that’s a ridiculous multicultural rhyme?” I start giggling softly, my nerves making me easily amused.
    He laughs a little too, a bit of the tension dissipating, but he still backs away from me again. “If it helps, in Scotland it’s pronounced Mac Eye .”
    “I guess. Are you actually from Scotland? Because you don’t have a Scottish accent. I don’t know exactly what your accent is, but it isn’t Scottish.” I shrug, trying to get the giggles under control.
    “Well, no, but my parents do live there currently.”
    “Doesn’t count.” I’ve never looked for a knight in shining armor; I generally find I’m the best equipped to take care of myself. Yet I walk toward him so I can see his face better and proffer my hand so he can escort me, suddenly brazen in my decision to marginally trust my would-be rescuer. “Come on, then. Take me to my car.”
    He very gently reaches out and takes my hand, then turns to lead me away. I’m close enough to smell him again. Funny that he is at least partially Scottish and he smells like fine Scotch.
    Yeah, I could drink him right up. Geesh.
    When we reach the side of the road, he drops my hand, and I miss the warmth.
    “May I ask why you were out here?” His hesitation to upset me again wars with the curiosity and worry in his gaze.
    I can’t help but find that a bit endearing, even though I don’t know how to answer his question. I don’t want to talk about my ability. I go with close to the truth. “I’m a volunteer with the humane society and came out on a ride-along with the humane agents. And I, uh…”
    “Thought you’d take matters into your own hands?”
    Is he laughing at me? “Uh, yeah, I guess that’s it,” I hedge, and really wish I were a better liar. I’ve never needed to worry about trying to explain that I’m talking to animals to anyone. If someone catches me talking out loud at the shelter, they just assume I’m like all the other animal lovers who talk to animals. I don’t have to say I hear them back.
    “Hmm. That seems unwise. Unless you are more badass than you seem.” He sounds so serious saying this that I start laughing.
    “You think there’s a possibility I’m a badass ?” It’s such a funny thought that I, Miss Office Worker, never done anything exciting, could be a badass. Well, I guess I never did anything exciting until tonight.
    “That’s an accurate use of that word,” he defends petulantly, and I find that cute. After a pause during which I keep chuckling—partly because I still think his description is funny and partly because I think I’m starting to crack up in the mental health sense—he adds, “I doubt you are a badass. Am I wrong?”
    “No,” I manage to get out around the laughing. I suck in some deep breaths, slowly calming the giggles before I start laughing/crying.
    “Then what were you doing?”
    I really want to tell him, even while part of me just wants to make a run for my car, which we’ve almost reached. The half that wants to run wins out, my humor vanquished in one fell swoop by my rising panic. “It’s complicated.”
    “Ah, I see. Something you don’t want to tell me. Can you at least tell me your name?”
    “It’s Chloe. Chloe Swenson.” I pull keys from my purse, then turn back to him, the question erupting before I can remember I’m trying to escape. “But why were you out