Hair of the Dog Read Free

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