Hair of the Dog (2 page)

But Ivy had big plans for the resort and epic ideas to
increase tourism.
Mystic Springs—destination of the stars.
You know,
washed-up D-listers and has-beens recovering from cheap plastic surgery
debacles. The clean mountain air would do wonders for the mentally unbalanced.

Grant tapped the blinker. “Here we are.”

A notable wooden sign with floodlights stood prominently by
the road. Mystic Springs Resort & Spa was etched into the wood.
Nice!
Surprisingly nice
. He pulled off the main road to a single-lane paved
drive that skirted along a creek and through the tall trees. Once he crossed a
quaint wooden bridge, the forest opened up to a lodge of stone and logs.
Old
.
Regal. Grand.

Pointing, he said, “That’s the old lodge, dating back to the
eighteen hundreds. It houses a restaurant,
Mystic Meals
, and a bar
called
Hair of the Dog.
” The smile in his voice told her he enjoyed
saying
Hair of the Dog
—and why wouldn’t he? “There’s also a meeting hall
upstairs for a local club. The Wolf Pack.”

Inclining her head, she said, “Beg your pardon?”

“The Wolf Pack,” he repeated.

“A motorcycle…er…club?” She considered going with motorcycle
gang, but thought better of it. Sounded like a mob of flea-infested,
beer-bottle-busting hooligans with a tendency to howl at the full moon and call
their wives and girlfriends bitches.

“No, like a benevolent society. A fraternal organization. A
social, members-only club. I’m a dog,” he said quite matter-of-factly. Proudly
even. His first noticeable flaw. Not a deal breaker.

“I’m sorry? What?”
What did you say?
She shook her
head again. If she kept up with the stupid questions, he’d start thinking she
needed some mountain air for
her
mental imbalance. “Never mind.”

“What do you think?” he asked with his fingers wrapped
firmly around the steering wheel.

Lucky steering wheel.
Ivy turned her attention back
to the lodge as they passed.

Light filtered out through the windows of the lodge into the
darkness, casting a glow on the fresh-cut grass. A remarkable number of cars
were parked in the gravel lot, presumably owned by customers, or dogs, all
eating or drinking and spending money. She’d expected an empty hole in the wall
with rejects from the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.

“I…uhm…well…”
Think I’m in over my head.
“It’s as
beautiful as the scenery.”
Thank you very much for not saying pretty again.
I owe you. Note to self. Stop talking to myself.

“You feel overwhelmed? Please don’t, Ivy. There’s an entire
network of people here to help you. We want you to succeed.” Weaving the Jeep
slowly around the well-kept grounds, strictly adhering to the ten mile per hour
posted signs, he said, “I’m going to let you get settled. What you need is a
good night’s rest.”

What I need is that umbrella drink. A little hair of the
dog that bit me.
Although she was far from hung over. On the contrary, Ivy
had never felt so sober in her entire life.

A half dozen two-story Victorian houses stood in rows to the
left, all with expansive porches and oodles of character. Scattered along the
banks of the creek, which looked more like a river in certain spots, were
Twenties-era cottages.

“Here’s yours.” He pulled to a stop in front of a small
cottage with a white picket fence set back from the others. “Small, but with
plenty of—”

“Charm?”
I can finish your
sentences too, mister.

Shooting her an awed glance, as if she’d picked just the
right word out of a million possibilities, he said, “Yeah, charm.”

As efficiently as he’d loaded her luggage, he unloaded,
toting it up the walk to the front door as if it weighed nothing at all. After
fishing a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and set about closing the
open windows where ruffled curtains blew in the breeze. A pleasant zip of
electricity zapped her spine when she realized he had a key to her cottage on
his key ring.

Grant Grayson rambled on about the place being fully stocked
with most anything she’d need, including grocery staples until she had a chance
to visit the store. She spun around, lost in the simplistic beauty of the
cottage.

“Homey,” she said.

“Yes. It is,” he agreed. “I’m glad you like it.”

Ivy smelled the stale must of a house left unlived in too
long. She took a turn around the room that was filled with comfortable, if not
new, furnishings. The wood floor creaked under her feet. She leaned in to
admire an old watercolor of nymphs frolicking in and around a fountain.
Something about the image felt so familiar, pulling gently at her memories, yet
they weren’t her memories to pull at. She shook the nonsense from her head.

“It’s just one bedroom but the sofa magically transforms
into a bed for houseguests,” he cleared his throat, “should you have any.”

Still admiring the picture, trying to place it, she replied,
“I won’t.” Maybe she’d seen a similar picture in an antique store.
Oh, well,
never mind.
She returned her attention to him.

His brows drew together before asking, “What about family?”

“Nope.” The word burst out of her mouth with a popping
sound.

“Friends?” he inquired.

“Doubtful,” she said in a sing-song voice.

“Boyfriend?” he mumbled.

Her eyes connected with his. If she didn’t know better,
Ivy’d guess he was fishing for information about her personal life. If he
weren’t so eye buggingly, jaw droppingly gorgeous—not to mention married—she’d
think he was interested in her. And then she’d become obsessed, probably stalk
him—good naturedly, of course—only to find out he was gay or simply just not
interested in her.

She snorted again before replying, “I’m not holding my
breath on that front.”

More likely he wanted to discover sooner rather than later
about a potential ex-con biker boyfriend loitering around her cottage making
the guests lock their doors at night.
If only
. No such boyfriend
existed. Past or present. The future wasn’t looking promising, she thought,
when his ring suddenly caught the light of a lamp and nearly blinded her with
reality.

His smile landed somewhere between a laugh and a grin.
“Mystic Springs
is
for lovers,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s our slogan. It never really stuck.” He scratched his
head. “Ordered about a thousand postcards and five hundred bumper stickers.”

So I have some postcards and bumper stickers to unload.
Good to know
. “When can we get together to discuss the job? Tonight?” she
asked hopefully.

“Tomorrow?” he quickly said. “Over breakfast?”

Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

Grant could not get Ivy Fontainebleau out of his head. A
long, moonlight run along the creek didn’t help. A swim in the warm spring made
things worse. The cold shower afterwards, also not a remedy. He dropped his
damp towel to the tiled bathroom floor and ambled to the bedroom for a pair of
boxer shorts. He found none in his underwear drawer. None in any subsequent
drawers he rummaged through either. He did one of those I-coulda-had-a-V8 head
thumps, recalling his clean shorts were all in the dryer. Typical.

Wandering downstairs in the darkness, he weaved his way
toward the utility room using instinct and keen night vision to guide him. His
nostrils flared. He gasped. At his kitchen sink, stood Ivy. Water from the
faucet flowed freely into her cupped hands. She then drizzled the water over
her face and seductively down her neck, soaking the front of her shirt. The wet
shirt clung, nearly transparent, to her erect nipples.

“Ivy?” He barely recognized his own voice, which sounded
abnormally high pitched, like he was a kid flirting with puberty.

She tilted her head in his direction. “Take me to the
spring.” Her voice took on an ethereal quality, distinctly different from the
voice he committed to memory earlier. Water dripped, forming puddles at her
feet on the floor.

“Now?” He snatched one of Molly’s aprons off a hook next to
the pantry, tying it loosely around his waist to hide his telltale erection.
“Kind of late, don’t you think?” According to the illuminated clock on the
stove, the time crept close to midnight. Clouds obscured the moon and the air
outside held a chill.
Bad night for a jaunt to the spring.

She shed her wet Winnie the Pooh nightshirt, leaving her
wearing nothing but panties. Bikini panties. Wet bikini panties. Wet bikini
panties he could see through. The sight of the patch of dark hair between her
legs caused his stomach to dip.

“Love me beneath the mystic waters all night long and into
the dewy morn while our elders look on approvingly,” she said.

Only part of that plea interested him. Grant’s hand came
down on the faucet handle to stop the spray. “I’m not a teenager any longer.”
If he paced himself, he could drag some lovin’ out for thirty, forty minutes.
That included foreplay, of course, as well as the customary five to seven
minutes of cuddling afterwards. But that was on a good day, not after the
taxing day he’d had and a five-mile run. He waved his hand in front of her
eyes. Nothing. “Have you been drinking, Ms. Fontainebleau?” he asked. They made
a mind-numbing brew at the Mystic Springs Distillery. The stuff came with a
stern warning label.

“I’m intoxicated by the enchanted waters of the spring.” She
traced circles around her wet nipple with her fingertips, causing her erect
nipples to swell more. He matched her swelling with some swelling of his own.
“Come with me,” she said, beckoning him with her sultry voice. She swayed
hypnotically, like a willowy tree at the mercy of a strong wind.

What?
He snatched her shirt from the counter where
she’d left it, draping it as best he could over her chest.
Nice chest
.
“Wish I could. Really. Maybe tomorrow.”
She’s not for you. She’s not for
you. She’s not for you.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face. Her eyes stared
right through him. Not through him so much as inside of him, as if mapping his
essence. Grant felt, fought and reveled in her intrusion into his very soul,
secretly hoping she liked what she saw within him.

Ivy brushed away the shirt he offered. With the strength of
a decent welterweight boxer, she shoved him up against the stainless steel
refrigerator. Grant gasped when the cold metal made contact with his flesh,
which was nearly on fire with need for her.

She pressed a firm hand on his chest, holding him in place
with superhuman strength. He wanted to tell Ivy that her warmth and softness
and perfumed scent held him hostage, that there was no need for manhandling.
But that would be highly inappropriate, partly due to his position in the
community. Mostly because she was not for him.

“I think we should take a moment to think this through,”
Grant said. His cock thickened, betraying his words of protest, betraying his
anguished vow to his late wife.

Ivy snarled her reply into his ear, which would have
possibly terrified the average man. Not him. Her primal growl warmed his blood
and clouded his head. The throaty sound made his thoughts of his wife
disappear, along with any shred of common sense he once had.

She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and inhaled
deeply before dragging her tongue from his chin to his ear by way of his jaw.
He quaked in response. Apparently liking the taste of him, Ivy’s tongue darted
along his neck and chest, sampling Grant, stopping occasionally to nip at his
flesh, causing him to squirm.

The word “stop” stuck in his throat, right behind “don’t”
and “no”. When the words bubbled from his mouth, they spilled out in a jumble.
“No. Don’t. Stop,” he said between heaving breaths.

“No,” she purred. “I won’t.” Her nails raked the length of
his torso.

Grant recoiled from the painful pleasure. Ivy’s body writhed
against him, her taut nipples pressing into his flesh, her leg twining with his
like she might climb him. He fought the impulse to dig his fingers into the
softness of her hips and breasts, same as he fought the prickly head-to-toe
heat. His hair and nails itched and ached from the urge to shift.

Ivy skimmed her nails lightly down his chest, past his
abdomen, and stroked his stiff cock through the flimsy fabric of the apron. She
moaned. He groaned. Her other hand pulled the apron strings, letting the
barrier fall to the kitchen floor. Without the apron, Ivy freely rubbed his
erection as Grant leaned helplessly against the kitchen appliance. He had
enough on his plate just remaining human.

“What if I…what if I make a pot of coffee and we talk this
out?” he stammered.

Ivy shimmied down his body, crouching, stroking the length
of his shaft with one hand while rubbing the head of his cock with her other.
Grant squeezed his eyes shut. His balls tightened and his eyes stung like he’d
been on a bender. Opening his eyes, he fought to focus.

No, no, no,
don’t stop,
his mind called out to
hers when she ceased rubbing his helmeted head.
Yes, yes, yes.
He
changed his tune when her lips closed in around the tip, only the tip. Her
tongue swirled, tracing circles around the ridge as Ivy continued gently
stroking, twisting and squeezing his length, coaxing his climax from his body.

“We shouldn’t—” he choked out in a strangled gasp.

Ivy mumbled something that vibrated along his cock. He
guessed her garbled reply was a negative as she drew his entire length slowly
into her mouth. Her lips hugged and stroked every inch. Ivy sucked and
swallowed. Her hands and mouth worked in tandem to pleasure him. Grant felt
each toe-curling trick she performed. Her moans reverberated up and down his
cock.

Grant couldn’t stop himself from palming her face with one
hand as he gave over to his desire. His climax built strong and steadily at her
mercy. The fingers of his other hand combed through her hair. He rolled his
hips forward one last time, hating himself, but loving the touch of a woman.
Not just any woman, but an enchanted being he had no business dallying with.
Groaning, he came amidst a rush of heat and guilt.

With a whimper, Ivy crumpled to the floor. Her body
convulsed like a mini seizure. He’d seen such actions before, many times in a
town full of shifters. Never after a blowjob, though. He gathered his wits and
soothed her with gentle strokes. When she calmed, Grant picked her shirt up off
the floor and yanked it down over her head. She lay sprawled in his arms like a
rag doll. Dressing a rag doll would be easier, he decided. Somehow he managed
to stuff her arms through the appropriate holes, but not without accidentally
brushing up against her exceptional breasts, which seemed wrong despite what
she’d done to him moments earlier. His body reacted again to her nakedness and
proximity, just when he’d reined in his desire.

Grant lightly patted her cheeks. He flicked water on her
face. Nothing woke her. He wasn’t sure if waking her would be prudent,
especially given the state of undress he found himself in. Risking being seen
carrying her limp body across the quad to her cottage struck him as a bad idea.
Almost as bad as her waking up in his bed, even if he wasn’t in it with her. He
laid her out on the living room couch, covering Ivy with an afghan and left her
to sleep it off. Whatever
it
was.

* * * * *

Grant arranged the sugar packets in order of color on the
table while he waited for Ivy.
White. Yellow. Pink.
Next he evened up
the salt and pepper shakers like they were a bride and groom waiting to say “I
do”.

Molly always teased him about his compulsion to organize.
Structure calmed him. Grant found himself wondering if Ivy would find his
quirks as endearing. Didn’t matter, he decided. They had no future.

Ivy had been gone from his couch when he woke in the
morning, but the night before hadn’t been a dream. Her pleasant scent had
remained in the air, nearly as pungent as the memory of her touch and kisses.
The gentle touches as well as the not-so gentle. And besides, he wasn’t prone
to delirium. Unlike her, apparently.

Bobby Joe Dumfries plunked down in the seat Grant had saved
for Ivy at the table for two. “Well?”

“Well what, Bobby?” Grant said with disdain.

Grant wasn’t a fan of Bobby Joe, a young buck who drove too
fast, drank excessively and mounted any woman who turned her back to him
without walking quickly away. He was half man, half whore.

“Did you see her?” he whispered, his eyes crinkling at the
corners. “I wouldn’t fuck her with someone else’s dick.”

Grant glanced around the room. “Shut it.”
Before I shut
it for you
. “That could be construed as sexual harassment.”

“Not if she don’t hear me,” he protested. “B’sides, how can
it be harassment if you
won’t
fuck her?” In a roundabout, moronic way,
there was a tiny grain of logic attached to Bobby Joe’s statement—or would be
if he’d left the thought in his head. Out of Bobby Joe’s mouth, it was nothing
more than redneck rubbish indicative of his IQ.

The previously quiet dining hall of the lodge was coming to
life with breakfast customers within earshot of Bobby Joe’s snide remarks. “Go.
Away.” Grant dismissed Bobby Joe with a brusque wave of his hand.

He didn’t go, not immediately anyhow. Bobby Joe persisted in
behaving like an ass. “I’m just saying I’d need some serious beer goggles to
hit that.”

“Can we just pretend like we don’t know each other?” Grant
pleaded. “Just walk away.”

Bobby Joe did so, shaking his head and muttering all the way
to the door.

Next in line to annoy him was Adam Griswold, owner of the
Mystic Putt an’ Paintball. Soft in the middle
and
in the head. Grant
glanced around for a sign that read
complaints—inquire within.
Finding
none, he avoided eye contact, but Adam slid into the recently vacated seat.

It was times like these Grant hated being mayor of Mystic
Springs. “Good morning, Adam.”

Without offering a salutation, Adam leaned in and whispered,
“Is she our girl?”

“Only time will tell.” Spoken like a true politician. Too
bad time was a scarce commodity. Their livelihood was drying up. The spring was
slowly dying as they spoke. Some believed Ivy to be the key to rejuvenating the
failing fountain of their very existence. Not that Grant thought like all his
superstitious constituents. Being a man of the people, misguided people though
they were, he went along with their collective consensus. Just in case. Ivy
might be magical. She might be crazy.

“You think she’ll save us?” Adam looked like a treed bear
cub. Fear shone in his dark eyes. There was a lot of that going on around town.
Fear ran rampant.

“I don’t know,” Grant snapped in a whisper.

What did they want from him? He’d done everything within his
power, starting with tracking her down. Not an easy task. Next he’d dangled a
job offer created just for her. Actually getting her here had been an exercise
in extreme manipulation. Luckily she had a degree in hotel management and they
had a hotel, of sorts. If she’d been an M.D., they would have offered Ivy a
hospital. Had she been a zoologist, they’d have built her a damn zoo. Animals,
they had plenty of.

“Rumor has it her mama was a real beauty,” he drawled.

Grant inclined his head toward Adam. “What’s your point?”

Adam shrugged. “She’s…well…plain.”

You should talk
. In their minds, plain equated to
powerless, for some reason. The town anticipated some sort of sexy siren who’d
invade their minds or seduce them in their dreams. Starting with Grant, it
seemed. But she’d been no dream. On the contrary, she’d been the one asleep or
in a trance. He braced himself to hear some sort of switched-at-birth theory
from Adam’s mouth on account of Ivy’s ordinary appearance.

Glancing at his wristwatch, Grant said, “I’m expecting her
any minute.”
In other words, go away
.
Sooner the better
.

Adam aimed his finger pistol at Grant and fired one last
moronic question at him. “You going to make a play for her?”

He blasted a hard, disapproving look at Adam. “My people
mate for life.”

“‘My people.’” Adam snorted a laugh. “My people eat their
young.”

Grant rubbed his temples. “I wouldn’t brag about that,
Adam.”

“It’s a joke, Mr. Mayor, sir.” His tone mocked him.

Whatever happened to respect? Hierarchy?
His
ancestors had settled in Mystic Springs to escape persecution. Others had
followed. They brought with them their lore and customs and mystical way of
life. It seems they’d all of them evolved into ugly Americans. “It’s a bad
joke.” Grant waved across the room to Ivy. “Aren’t you late for work, Adam?”
He’d not stand in anyone’s way, but neither would he introduce Ivy to the likes
of Adam Griswold. Frankly, she could do better, plain or not.