by A. D. Ellis
Tanner looked around him as he took the bag from me. He wore sneakers and a light leather jacket.
I said, “If you’re going to go out into the woods regularly, I should take you shopping. Hiking boots or shoes and a jacket meant for serious hiking would help.”
“Honestly, Mitch, I haven’t been in the woods since I was eight. That was at a state park.” Tanner glanced down at his clothes.
“Are you okay with being here?”
Tanner grinned. The smile made him even more attractive. I shifted back and forth from one foot to another while I tried to concentrate on our conversation. He said, “With you, yeah. It’s kind of pretty out here, and you know what you’re doing.”
I pointed at a tree and said, “Near these, particularly fallen ones, are great places to look.”
Tanner gazed up at the tall tree. “What kind is it?”
“It’s a sycamore. Check out the bark. You’ll be able to pick them out from the others in no time.” I pointed at a patch of plants near a recently fallen tree. “And that’s your second big sign. Look for Mayapple colonies.”
“May apples?” Tanner frowned.
I reached down, picked a plant, and held it over Tanner’s head. “These are May apples. When I was a kid, we pretended they were umbrellas. You can see why.”
“That’s cute,” said Tanner. He walked over near the fallen tree and shrugged. “I don’t see anything anywhere.”
I pointed at the ground. “You nearly stepped on one!” Sure enough, it was the first morel of the season for me. That was always a cause for celebration. It wasn’t much bigger than my thumb, but it would be delicious coming out of the deep fryer. I held it up to admire the perfect spongy texture.
“Wow, maybe there are some more.” Tanner poked at the leaves on the forest floor with his sneaker. “If there’s one, shouldn’t there be a bunch?”
“Not necessarily, and be careful with the shoes. You can bury some in the leaves or smash and trample them.”
I found morels about every twenty-five yards for the next half hour. My bag was nearly half full, and Tanner still hadn’t seen one on his own. In an exasperated voice, he asked, “What am I doing wrong? It’s like they wait for you to show up, and then they pop out of the ground.”
I walked up to Tanner and put an arm around his shoulders. His body felt good pulled up close to mine. I said, “It takes practice. When I was a kid, I’d go mushroom hunting with my parents and sometimes find none while they came home with bags full.”
“So does this mean all next week South Main is serving morels to customers while I struggle along with those sad white button ones I can get wholesale?” Tanner pulled a pouty face.
I squeezed Tanner up tighter. “If you’re a nice guy, I might share.”
About fifteen minutes later, my bag was at the ¾ point when Tanner shouted, “I found one! Oh, my God, and there’s another—and another!”
I joined Tanner and saw that he was right. He’d found a small colony of morels. They were a perfect size, as big as the palm of my hand, and he was busily plucking them from the floor of the woods and dropping them into his bag.
When he saw me stepping up close, Tanner stood and spontaneously threw his arms around me. I started to rest my head on his shoulder as we hugged, but he had other ideas. Tanner pursed his lips for a kiss. I recognized it immediately, and I couldn’t turn it down in the excitement of the moment.
Our lips met, and it wasn’t merely a peck. Tanner parted his lips to suck on my tongue as it darted forward. I felt the instant stiffness between my legs and kissed harder. Tanner’s right hand began to knead my chest, and I pulled back briefly to whisper, “Oh, fuck—”
Tanner almost said something, but I smothered the words with my lips while I pushed my hips forward against him. We were both hard, and I heard Tanner gasp for breath when our bulging packages started to grind against each other.
For several minutes, we kissed hard, and then I trailed my lips and tongue down the side of Tanner’s neck while he tugged the tail of my t-shirt out of my jeans and shoved his hand up inside. His touch was warm and firm. He wasn’t tentative in his approach to my body, and I loved it.
With my fingers tangled into Tanner’s hair, I pulled back from a kiss. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Listen. Do you hear the trickle?”
Tanner blinked as he looked into my eyes. “Yeah, I do. It sounds like a babbling brook.”
“It’s the springs—Willow Springs.” My hands rested on Tanner’s waist.
“Oh, man, that’s awesome.
“Do you know what they say about hearing the springs before you see them?”
Tanner said, “I didn’t grow up here. I think the answer to that would be no.”
“My grandma told me when I was a kid. When you hear the springs before you see them, that means there’s magic in the air. Something miraculous is happening.”
Tanner stared deeply into my eyes, and our gazes locked. He whispered, “Magic indeed,” before we kissed again.
12
Tanner
I woke very early the next morning. My hands were on autopilot, scratching. When I opened my eyes, I saw an angry red rash on the tops of my hands and my forearms. Stumbling to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and spotted a small, rashy patch of itchiness on my neck.
I immediately called Mitch on speakerphone as I ran my hands and arms under cold water. The relief wasn’t enough. Why Mitch was the first person I thought to call wasn’t something I wished to ponder.
Mitch’s voice was scratchy, and he was still groggy when he answered. “Tanner? What time is it? What’s wrong?”
“I need you to come over. Now.” As we spoke, I studied the rash on my arms before dragging my nails against the skin. “I mean it. Now.
“I told you I’d get the morels split up fair and square. I’ll bring you your half later this morning.” Mitch cleared his throat and groaned. “But I didn’t mean five in the morning. Damn, are you that eager to get started cooking?”
“This isn’t about the damn mushrooms, Mitch!” I stalked from the bathroom and threw myself on my bed. “Something is wrong—very wrong—with me.”
My anguished self-assessment got Mitch’s attention, and he agreed to come right over.
I met the sleepy man at the door twenty-five minutes later. He held a mug of coffee in one hand, and worry furrowed his brow. Mitch’s hair was still wet from his shower. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got some sort of rash.” I shoved my hands out to him. “It’s all over my hands and arms. There’s even a spot up here on my neck. It itches like nothing I’ve ever felt before.” I shook my hands and shoulders as if I could throw the rash off my body. “It’s like my skin’s on fire—it’s stinging and itching so bad that I want to take a damn potato peeler to my arms and peel the first three layers off in hopes of making it stop.”
Mitch opened his eyes wide. “Oh, shit.”
“Oh, shit? Is that all you can say? I show you a deadly rash, and you respond with, oh, shit? Your bedside manner sucks!” I continued scratching and ignored my inborn tendency toward melodramatic behavior.
“Sorry.” Mitch winced. “It looks like poison ivy. You probably got it from the woods yesterday. Did you shower when you got home?” He held my hands in his and examined the rash.
“Yes! You creeped me out talking about ticks, so I stripped off my clothes right inside the door, threw them in the washer, and jumped in the shower.” I shuddered. “I started itching before bed, but I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, making me think ticks were crawling on me.”
“The best thing you could have done was shower—with plenty of soap. It washes away the oil that causes the itchy reaction.” Mitch grimaced. “Sorry, I don’t get poison ivy, so I didn’t think about mentioning it. I can roll around in a patch and not get a rash. Glad you washed off. It could have been so much worse.”
“Worse?” My voice
was way too loud, but I was freaking out and miserable. “Worse than a fiery red rash that itches like the worst damn itch of all itches?”
Mitch clenched his jaw, but he couldn’t completely hide the upward curl of the corners of his mouth. It only lasted for a second or two before he clamped down on the smile and frowned again.
“This isn’t funny! I’m dying. This can’t be a simple case of poison ivy. People live through regular poison ivy, right? This isn’t that type. It’s the bad kind. I can tell.” I dug at my skin.
“Stop scratching,” commanded Mitch, like a drill sergeant barking orders. “And maybe try to tone down the theatrics.” He put his hands on my shoulders and maneuvered me toward the laundry room. Mitch grabbed clothes from a basket. “You’re going to get an infection and maybe even set yourself up for scars.” He shoved a sock onto each of my hands. “Don’t touch.”
I moaned, “You don’t understand how bad it itches. Seriously, are you sure it’s not some flesh-eating disease that’s going to kill me? I feel like I might be dying. I’m on fire.” I tried to rub the itch with my socked hands, but Mitch swatted away my efforts. I narrowed my eyes. “How did you not get it? And why did I have to be the victim?”
Mitch steered me toward the bathroom, where he rummaged through my medicine cabinet and found some hydrocortisone cream. “I’ve never had a poison ivy reaction. From what I’ve read about it, a third of people don’t have reactions—they’re immune somehow. I’m guessing you’ve had a previous exposure since the rash popped up so quickly. Usually, it doesn’t show itself for seven to ten days if it’s a person’s very first exposure and reaction.” Mitch reached for the top of one of the socks and rolled it down my arm before he applied the cream.
I sighed at the combination of Mitch’s finger rubbing my itch and the medication providing a tiny bit of relief. Suddenly, I jerked my arm back. “Wait! Is it contagious? I don’t want you to get it.”
Mitch laughed. “No, that’s a myth. From what I’ve heard, it’s not contagious between people, and scratching doesn’t spread it.” He rubbed more cream onto my arm. “However, the scratching is a bad idea because your germy fingers and nails might make it infected. That’s what Grandma always said. I’ve seen people with scars from poison ivy.”
“Be honest with me. This is one of the worst cases you’ve ever seen, right?” I gritted my teeth. The cream was only doing about a tenth of what I needed it to do.
Mitch bit his lip as if to hide another smile. “Not the worst, no. I think you got lucky, and this is only a mild case. It’s going to be uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t last long. I’ve heard horror stories of people getting it in their nose, throat, and eyes.” Mitch shuddered. “Imagine how bad that would be.”
“I’ll pity them tomorrow, but I need someone to pity me right now.” I moved so Mitch could apply a bit more cream. “Do you think I should go to the doctor?” I knew the local doctor, Clayton Ford, had a small practice in Willow Springs. “Maybe he has something better than hydrocortisone cream.”
“That’s probably not a bad idea.” Mitch pulled the socks back up my arms. “You want to walk over or let me drive you?”
“Can you drive me?” I sighed and let my head drop back against the bathroom door. “You think I’ll be able to work today?”
Mitch scowled. “I’d guess Clayton will suggest a day or two off to let the rash dry up. As much as you wash your hands at work, the constant drying with paper towels will just exacerbate the itch, I’d think.”
“But what about my morels?” The only way I would have seemed more like a whining brat was if I stomped my foot on the ground. “I wanted to incorporate those into some new recipes.”
Mitch stepped close and used his body to press me against the door. “I’ll split the morels and pack yours in such a way they can keep in the fridge for three to five days. They can stay in the freezer even longer. I promise you’ll get to make some fancy dishes with your damn mushrooms.” His nostrils flared as his eyes glanced at my lips.
My breath caught in my throat. For a moment, I forgot about the itch. The sensation of Mitch’s hard body against mine—his warmth—the bulge in his jeans—it all distracted me just long enough to bend slightly and brush a kiss against Mitch’s lips.
When I brought my socked hands up to rest on his chest, it punctured the moment. I was in no position to be making out. I looked like a child in a sock puppet play. My hands and arms were burning, and all I wanted was to find a doctor who could put me out of my misery. In a town like Willow Springs, maybe he’d take me out back and shoot me like a hobbled horse. Whether the method was medical intervention or death—at the moment, I didn’t care.
Mitch gave me a chaste kiss on the lips and cleared his throat. “I think Clayton opens at six most mornings. Let me give him a call. Do you want to grab a shower first? Warm water might feel good.”
“But you just put all that cream on me.” I swung my arms around, feeling pathetic but hoping the movement would dull the itching.
“I’ll put on more if needed. Try slapping at the itch. The friends I have who’ve gotten tattoos swear that slapping helps the itch.” Mitch turned on the water for a shower. “I’m sure Clayton will give you more medication, too. I’ll call. Take a shower.”
Thirty minutes later, Mitch dropped me off in front of Dr. Clayton Ford’s small office, and I walked to his side of the truck. Gruffly, he said, “If you need a ride home, just call me.”
I felt like a fool wiggling my sock-covered hand in a sort of wave, but I nodded. “I will, but I think I’ll walk home. Thanks for the ride.” My face twisted into a scowl. “And the socks. And the cream. And for coming over so early. Sorry I woke you.” I leaned against the driver’s side window. “I know I’m a whiny bitch when I’m sick.”
Mitch chuckled, “You don’t say.” He smiled and placed a hand on an unaffected part of my arm. “Don’t worry about it. I kind of liked that you thought to call me out of all the people you could have called.”
“Travis probably has a worse bedside manner than you. There are not many others I’d think to call.”
Mitch’s eyes caught mine and held. His nostrils flared, and he set his jaw. “Well, I didn’t mind the early morning spent with you. I wish I could have helped a little more.” He pulled gently on my arm, and I let him tug me closer.
I leaned farther into the cab of Mitch’s truck. It was early, and I didn’t think many people were out and about, but I didn’t care. The gossip mill be damned. I gasped as Mitch touched his lips to mine. The kiss was soft and gone too soon, but it was passionate enough to make my heart pound.
“Let me know what Doc Ford says. I’ll swing by Java and put the morels in your fridge.” Seconds later, Mitch drove away.
I entered the doctor’s office and looked around. Ford had converted an old home into his medical practice. The atmosphere was warm and homey. A man looked up from the front desk as I entered.
“Good morning—what can I help you with?” The man at the desk was older than me—maybe not as old as Mitch—and very attractive. He looked more like the type of men I would have dated back in Chicago, although older than most of them. So why was mind only on Mitch? It was like my eyes and dick didn’t want to pay a bit of attention to Ford.
“Um, I called in earlier. Well, a friend did. I’m here to see Dr. Ford about a rash.” I held up my covered hands.
The man smiled. “I’m Dr. Ford. Mitch told me you’ve got a probable case of poison ivy. Let’s take a look and see if we can’t get you some relief and speedy healing.”
Half an hour later, I was coated in a prescription steroid cream, slathered in calamine lotion, and under strict orders not to scratch.
“Take the cream and calamine with you, and I’ll put it on your charges for today. I suggest some pain reliever if the rash starts to hurt. I’ll call in an oral steroid. The pharmacy will contact you when it’s ready. I don’t normally go the oral steroid route right away, but it seems you’re p
retty miserable.” Clayton bagged up the medicines and handed them to me. “Remember to keep the area clean and dry. Cool compresses of apple cider vinegar may be helpful.”
I grimaced slightly at the insinuation I was a big ol’ baby, but if it got me medicine to help clear the rash quicker, I was all for it. “Work?” I took the bag and shoved the socks in it.
Clayton frowned. “I’d say take at least today off—maybe tomorrow. You’re not contagious, but you’ll not want to be preparing the food while dealing with an unsightly and itchy rash.”
“I’ll plan on two days. Thanks, Doc.” I handed him my debit card and waited for him to run the charges before signing my name and heading out the door.
The prescription-strength cream and calamine calmed the itch considerably. I dropped the bag off at home before heading to the library. Hopefully, the pharmacy wasn’t super busy and would get the steroid ready quickly.
Before the rash from hell invaded every thought, I’d been goofily smiling over Mitch and our day together. His kisses, his stubborn streak, and his passion for South Main added up to something hard to ignore. Aside from his killer looks, nothing about the man should have done anything for me. But there I was, getting all heart-fluttery about a man twenty years my senior and as old-fashioned as they come.
With a smile on my face and old-fashioned on my mind, I yanked on the library door.
Locked.
Damn. I’d forgotten how early my day had started.
I detoured to Gentry’s Java and entered through the back door. I didn’t want the customers to see me all covered in cream and lotion, but I said hi to my early shift crew and grabbed a coffee. I spent about twenty minutes sipping my drink and working on paperwork before checking in with the staff and heading out again. Seeing the front of the store packed with customers dining in and ordering to-go made me proud.
I enjoyed the early morning sunrise as I walked back to the library. I nodded at the librarian when she unlocked the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Gentry. How can I help you?” The librarian glanced at my arms. She smiled knowingly. “Are you looking for poison ivy home remedies?”