Hair of the Dog (3 page)

Adam sniffed her a little too obviously as they passed,
garnering him a wary look from Ivy. Grant knew firsthand she smelled amazing,
like wildflowers at dawn. He stood and held her chair out as she sat. His pulse
pounded in expectancy of their meeting. His anticipation mixed with dread about
the previous night. He should broach the subject and apologize for his lack of
control, along with assuring her it would
not
happen again.

“Thank you.” Her eyes darted around the noisy room. “Sorry
to keep you waiting.”

“Turnabout is fair play.” The townsfolk, with their
last-minute advice, had made him late picking her up the day before. As if he’d
never come face-to-face with an otherworldly being before.
Please.

Grant detected no tint of pink on her cheeks from
embarrassment about last night’s nocturnal visit. He decided to take a
wait-and-see attitude about the night before. The way she refused to look him
in the eye now indicated a hint of shame. He guessed they were to pretend she
hadn’t broken into his home, stripped naked and asked him to—
what had she
said?
Love her beneath the Mystic waters?
Works for me
.

His cock pressed against his zipper due to the fond
recollection of her lithe fingers and soft lips caressing his cock. He gave
himself a mental slap.
She’s not for you.

“It wasn’t retaliation,” she assured him. “More like
disorientation. You know, new surroundings. Waking up in a strange place.” She
cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Of course. Understandable. How did you sleep?” Now would be
a good time for her to mention that his couch left much to be desired when it
came to comfort. Then they could clear the air.

“Like a baby.” She studied the menu as if there might be a
pop quiz later. “I think I’ll have the Denver omelet today. I’ll just try
something different every day until I’ve sampled the entire menu. That way I
can make recommendations to guests. Know your product. That’s what I always
say.” Looking up and catching his eye, she asked, “What looks good to you?”

You
. He absently ran his tongue along the curve of
his teeth, fancying himself the Big Bad Wolf to her Little Red Riding Hood. “I
always have the steak and eggs, rare and runny.” He didn’t need the menu.

She hefted out a three-ring-binder stuffed full of paper and
brochures from a large canvas bag. Placing the bursting binder on the table,
she knocked over the ketchup bottle. The table wobbled under the weight. His
coffee splashed over the edge of his cup. He mopped the mess with a napkin.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Sorry.”

Grant recognized the binder right away. He’d mailed it to
Ivy at her insistence. She must have added to it. He admired her for doing her
research, although he got the impression she would have taken nearly any job,
anywhere, if it had the word
manager
in the job title.

“It has come to my attention,” she said, “that Mystic
Springs does not have a website.”

“Why don’t we talk business later? Relax.” He eased back in
his chair, pretending to relax, hoping she’d follow his lead. “Get to know your
way around. Meet the locals. Sometimes it takes time for folks to warm up to
outsiders. Once you’re acclimated, we’ll talk changes and marketing.”
And
then I’ll gently crush your dreams of making any changes. Nix the marketing
too. You’re here for one thing and it’s not a website.

Leaning in, she said, “I wanted to hit the ground running.”

He mirrored her lean. “You have to walk before you can run,
Ivy.”

The look in her eyes told him she wanted to argue, but would
save it for another day. Grant would put that in the victory column. He guessed
she’d be quite a fiery opponent. A passion for life simmered within her. He
could feel her heat from across the table.

Instead of disagreeing, she pulled out a map of the grounds.
“So help me get acclimated, Mr. Mayor.”

Grant loved the way she teasingly called him Mr. Mayor. He
pictured the title on her lips, book-ended by the words “please” and “fuck me”.
He feared she could see his heart pounding through his dress shirt, like on a
cartoon.

He snatched a pen from his shirt pocket and clicked the
button. “You are here.” He marked the map with an X and paused to smell her
fresh scent. “Your cottage is here.” Grant circled her cottage in black ink.
“This is my house.” He only tapped the location with his finger, since she had
no trouble finding it last night in the dark, and waited for her to say with a
wink, “I know, big daddy.” She didn’t. But she did swallow hard. “I live
onsite, as does the maintenance man, Jack. Did you do something different to
your hair?” he asked her quite suddenly. Something about her was different from
the day before.

She combed her fingers through her tresses. “I know, right?
It’s like someone gave me a hot oil treatment while I slept.” She cleared her
throat. “Must be the mountain air.” She examined the ends of her hair with
interest.

Next she produced a map of the Mystic Springs area and he
pointed out places of interest. If he could turn her into a tourist for a few
days, encouraging her to simply partake in everything Mystical, that would be
for the best.

After they ate, he introduced her around to some staff and
generally distracted her when she asked about an office space. How was he
supposed to think of everything? He did have actual mayoring to do as well.
Towns don’t just run themselves, he wanted to point out to—well, to basically
everyone who wouldn’t stop dogging him about Ivy and the damn spring.

While she explored the town, he’d have someone clear out a
space.

Ivy set out on a bicycle tour of Mystic Springs, stopping to
admire the familiar-looking fountain in the town square, followed by the rope
bridge to Echo Canyon. Her last planned stop was the library to study the
history of Mystic Springs. The place was rich in fascinating Indian lore with
tales of enchanted forests and magical waters that, according to a brochure,
promised to cure what ails you. She didn’t know about that, but it did wonders
for her hair. The town also had a mix of European traditions and old-world
architecture from the pioneers who’d settled the area. The two cultures had
blended together in a unique and appealing way, sort of
Hansel and Gretel
meets
Dances With Wolves
.

After the library, her stomach rumbled so she made an
impromptu stop to sample local fare of candy and pastries. Her attempt to suck
up to the locals. Money tended to warm people to strangers. She didn’t need
Marketing 101 to learn that. Ivy wasn’t above namedropping either, mentioning
her acquaintance to the mayor, which could backfire. He seemed popular with all
she spoke to, though.

Since the mayor failed to ask why she’d slept on his couch,
she chose to believe he didn’t know she did. If he found out about the naughty
dream she’d had about him, the man would hire a protection detail. Her stomach
flip-flopped due to the wicked memory. Obviously she’d blacked out again or
sleepwalked or whatever her strange affliction made her do. That didn’t explain
why her nightshirt was on backward, not to mention damp. Luckily her panties
weren’t missing, on backward or inside out—again.

She’d been having blackouts for as long as she could
remember. Ivy’d had an MRI, CAT scans, psychotherapy and hypnosis. The hypnotist
had regressed her back to a previous life as a magical fairy or water nymph or
some such nonsense but Ivy had threatened to file a complaint with the Attorney
General’s office and had gotten her money back. A psychic looked into a crystal
ball and told her she was the light and heart and power of her people. She’d
gotten her money back on that reading, too, with a little help from the Better
Business Bureau. Even charlatans had to protect their reputations to some
degree, or so it seemed. Ivy rolled her bike to a stop just short of the totem
pole out in front of the local church. Its majesty nearly took her breath away.
There was something so visually poetic about the images of wildlife stacked one
on top of another, telling a story she could not decipher. The iconic work of
art touched her. The entire town struck a chord within her, making her feel
right at home like no place she’d ever been.

When Ivy introduced herself at Mystic Quilts and Such, the
owner asked her, “How’s your dear mother?”

She guessed the woman was confused. “Fine. Fine.”

No sense correcting her. And no sense telling the woman that
her mother, who resided in a pleasant low-income retirement community in
Arizona, had always told her to act normal even if she didn’t feel normal.
“Being different is a burden too heavy to bear,” she’d say. And her mother
would know. She was possessed by urges to fling her clothes off and frolic
naked, too. Only Ivy’s mother took her urges to the next level, unlike Ivy, who
merely dreamed them. Mostly. Those urges often got her mother jailed, committed
and sometimes impregnated. Ivy figured that’s how she came to be. Somebody had
a one-night-stand with the crazy chick.

Other people in Mystic smiled and waved, greeting Ivy
kindly, as if she was and always had been a part of the community. So much for
Mayor Grayson and his lame theory about locals and their inability to warm to
strangers. These folks were warm and friendly, bordering on inappropriately
intrusive. If only she could get some of that action from the mayor.

He’s married, Ivy.
The bottom dropped out of her
previously pleasant disposition as she recalled the sparkling shine on his
wedding ring.

Ivy stopped her borrowed bike in front of City Hall. The
mayor’s office would almost certainly be housed inside. Her conscience told her
she should ride on by. Grant Grayson was married, not remotely interested in
her and way out of her league. The trifecta of potential disappointment. Waking
up in his living room only proved she was infatuated with him. Her wet dream,
the memory of which dampened her panties now, indicated obsession. Abstinence
was the answer. If she were an alcoholic, she’d pour her booze down the drain.
If she were fat, she’d throw her junk food in the trash. Logic told her to keep
her eyes straight ahead, pedal like mad and don’t look back.

My new motto: screw logic
.

With her stupid new motto for confidence, she climbed the
steps of the old, brick building. Accompanied by her imaginary bottle of
Southern Comfort in one hand and a box of make-believe Twinkies in the other,
because she had no willpower whatsoever. What she did have was moxie. Ivy
pushed through the heavy wood doors to meet disappointment head on.
Disappointment sounded hollow as her feet hit the marble floor.

A lovely folk art mural of a woodsy landscape covered the
walls. In the whimsical painting, all God’s creatures mingled on and around the
banks of the spring that was the town’s namesake. Wolves, bears and deer
befriended eagles, beavers and fish in some sort of
We Are the World
of
the animal kingdom. Ivy waited for the mural to break out in song. Nothing. The
building was quiet as a tomb. Dimly lit. The big atrium clock said it was after
five o’clock. Quitting time.

Suddenly, she heard shouting from down the hall. The noise,
along with her propensity to snoop, reeled her closer. An easily removable
brass plaque advertised Mayor Grant Grayson, as if he could easily be replaced.
Sounded like someone was telling him as much, at a loud decibel. She doubted
Grant could be replaced, easily or otherwise. Behind his door the shouting
raged on, leaking to his reception area in a muffled garble of indecipherable
anger. A desk where an assistant might work sat empty.

Ivy wondered if Grant’s secretary was hot. Did he chase her
around his desk? Did he catch her? Did the floozy
let
him catch her? Ivy
had half a mind to rat him out to his devoted wife until she remembered her
imagination was on autopilot.

The door swung open unexpectedly. “Stop dragging your feet!”
a weasely man shouted. “This is no time to dawdle. We need action.”

“I’m having the water tested again today for a comparison,”
Grant said from deep in his office. His tone sounded like a practiced
compilation of confidence and calm mixed with annoyance.

The weasel assessed Ivy over the rims of his glasses. She
responded by pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Good afternoon, Miss Fontainebleau,” he said with a bob of
his head.

“Hello.”
How does he know my name?

“There’s no time like the present, Grant,” he then said to
the mayor.

Grant waved his hand in Ivy’s direction. “Be my guest,
Atwood.”

Atwood—or Mr. Atwood—bristled and departed with quick,
clipped steps in the direction of the exit.

“Bad time?” Ivy asked, peeking into the inner sanctum. She
slipped her glasses off her face in order to improve her appearance, even
though she had zero chance with him.

“Perfect timing,” he replied, easing into the leather chair
behind his desk. “Please, come on in. I owe you.”

“Great.” Since he owed her, she decided now would be an
excellent time to pitch some ideas. She’d skip the ones that involved him and
her and sweet, creamy, delicious food products. “Has the township put any
thought into getting a cell tower? It might be what we in the tourism business
like to call an amenity.”

He made a clucking sound. “Not really. We like the
small-town feel of people actually talking to other people face-to-face. You
know, shaking hands, looking one another in the eye, that sort of thing.”

Quaint.
She really wanted to tell him those sorts of
things just weren’t done anymore. “People love their cell phones,” she felt
compelled to point out, “even people on vacation.”

He flicked his finger across his cheek. “You got some sun
today.”

Ivy pressed her hand to her cheek. “Did I?” She slipped her
glasses back on. Enjoying his good looks trumped her hope that he might enjoy
her…looks. It was then she noticed the bookshelves where a wedding photo of a
much-younger Grant and his lovely bride rested amid a grouping of other photos
and awards. “Your wife is beautiful.” Might as well get the subject out there
so he knew she knew. That way there’d be no misunderstandings about her
interest or lack thereof in him. Hopefully she could pull that off.

Glancing at the photo, he said, “Thank you.”

She blinked erratically. “No kids?”

“Nope.”

Ivy paused for further response, like
We weren’t blessed
with children
or
we’re working on it day and night from all possible
angles.
Maybe he hates kids
. Perhaps kids would get in the way of
them ravaging each other’s perfect bodies in every room of their house. They
smiled back at her from the photo, a happily married couple. Beautiful. Maybe
his wife was a shrill, nagging, shrew who refused him sex.
Hope so
.

On the opposite wall hung a painting of a gray wolf standing
regally near a pond with a waterfall in the background. The same pond and
waterfall as in her visions. The reality made her lightheaded. Her body
temperature rose. Ivy knew what was next. She fell back into a chair. Wetting
herself was never out of the realm of possibility during a blackout. It
happened…just hopefully not today.

Like a flash, he popped out of his chair and rounded his
desk, concern reflecting in his golden brown eyes. “Ivy? You all right?”

She shook her head. “Everything’s going black,” she
muttered, panic spiking through her strangled words. Panic that he would
discover her secret. And yet she felt compelled to turn to him for help,
clutching his hand in hers. Crushing his fingers with hers.

Grant crouched in front of her, pulling her lower eyelids
down to assess her eyes. Ivy felt mortified to realize she panted like a dog on
a hot day in his presence. His free hand examined her skin and checked her
wrist for the erratic pulse she felt thrumming through her body.

“Brace yourself,” he said. Next thing she knew, he tossed a
pitcher of cold water at her face and she screamed. “Sorry. Had to be done.”

True enough, it worked. But how did he know it had to be
done? Did he somehow know her conscious mind would go blank and who-knew-what
would happen next? When it happened while she slept, it had been diagnosed as
sleep walking and talking, for lack of a better finding. She’d wake from the
episodes with no concrete recollection. Just foggy dreams of regrettable
behavior she hoped were only dreams. Like the naughty reverie she’d had about
Grant last night.

The blackouts while awake, which were calling to her with
more frequency, made living a normal life next to impossible. And yet she was
determined to do just that, fighting her burden tooth and nail. How could she be
trusted to love one man? Who in their right mind would settle with her and
entrust the rearing of small children to her? On blind faith alone, she’d
accepted the responsibility of the job Mystic Springs offered.
I can do it.
I will do it.

“I should give you a ride home,” he said, his eyes squinted
endearingly.

Ivy nodded. The episodes left her spent and exhausted the
way she imagined an epileptic seizure would, or like she knew for a fact
last-minute Christmas shopping did.

When he dropped her off after a silent ride home, Grant
hesitantly asked, “What are your plans for dinner?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Come up to the house around seven. We should talk. You know
where it is.” Sounded like an accusation. She wondered if his wife would be
there. Where else
would
she be?

“Sure.” Ivy nodded. “You showed me on the map.”

She wasn’t about to admit she’d blacked out and ended up on
his sofa last night. The walk of shame home the next morning dressed in next to
nothing was no picnic.

“By 7:05, I’ll be worried and come looking for you.” That
sounded more like a promise than a threat. “
Comprende
?”

Ivy nodded again. She felt at a slight disadvantage,
standing there damp from a pitcher of water being slung in her face. Maybe he
wanted to fire her because she hadn’t disclosed her affliction. He’d soften the
blow with food. And that wasn’t all bad.

* * * * *

Grant willed himself to stop glancing out the kitchen window
in the direction he knew Ivy would be coming from. He even timed himself.
No
peeking for sixty seconds
. At seven o’clock he downgraded his sneak peeks
to thirty-second intervals.
There she is.
He should have known Ivy’s
sweet, floral and citrus scent would precede her. Her sleek movements were
every bit as graceful as his Molly’s had been. The resemblance ended there.

Where Molly had been dainty and petite, Ivy stood tall and
sturdy. Not a bad thing. Molly had been fairer of skin and hair. She was funny,
although lousy at telling a joke, if that made sense. She’d had many friends
and personified all things domestic. Family and friends meant everything to
her.

Looks aside and differences be damned, he knew Molly and Ivy
would have liked each other despite their polar opposite personalities. Or
maybe because of their differing personalities. Molly would have almost certainly
invited Ivy into her circle of friends. In Molly’s absence, Grant would
befriend Ivy for her.

He opened the kitchen door and waved to Ivy across the lawn.
Letting her in the back door appeared less date-like and more so a situation of
two coworkers sharing a meal for the sake of hospitality. Except Grant was sort
of her boss on account of the resort belonging to the town. Some days he felt
like he did too.