Page 31 of Beneath the Surface

Isobel glanced out the window. “Whispering Hills looks even prettier at night. It’s like a scene from a movie.”

Brad smiled. “Yeah, it does have that magical feel to it. You should see it at Christmas time.”

“I have.” Isobel sighed deeply. “I love all the lights.”

Brad chuckled. “Me too. I moved here for the quiet. Plus, it’s closer to my family.”

Isobel turned in her seat. “I’ve known you for like forever and never asked you about your family. How often do you visit them?”

Brad grinned. “My folks…as often as I can without them thinking I’m moving back in. My mom is a great cook. We have family dinner night on Thursdays.”

Isobel laughed. “We have the Everhart power dinner one Friday a month. We all bring a dish—as ordered by Liv. No boyfriends or fiancés allowed. Jackson, Ethan and Alex now go out to eat. And you come to the family dinner monthly.”

“Alex Marcel and your mom, huh? Do they post selfies of their activities?” Brad waggled his eyebrows.

Isobel burst out laughing. “Yes. Have you seen them? Pottery making, dance lessons at Ethan’s studio, and a coed book club.” She caught her breath. “Liv, Molly and Sophie threw a fit at first. She’s old enough to be his mom.” She inhaled and looked out the window. “But he makes my mom happy. And, apparently, she makes him happy. My feeling and Ruthie’s are to let them be.”

“I’m with you on that.” Brad shook his head.

He pulledinto the parking lot of The Loft. The building was hidden, its nondescript exterior giving no hint of the sophistication within. Isobel stepped inside, her heels clicking on polished marble floors, and was immediately greeted by the warm glow of dim amber lighting. The space was an eclectic mix of industrial and modern chic: exposed brick walls lined with abstract art pieces, Edison bulb chandeliers casting soft halos of light, and plush velvet furniture in jewel tones strategically placed to encourage conversation. The air was filled with the murmur of voices, occasional burst of laughter, and the faint aroma of sandalwood and vanilla.

Clusters of people were scattered around the room, each group occupying their own corner of the spacious venue. To her right, a tall woman in a tailored blazer and crimson lipstick gestured animatedly as she spoke to a man in a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal intricate tattoos on his forearms. At another table, a couple—one wearing a sharp black suit and the other in a flowing silver dress—sipped martinis while engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation. Isobel noticed how effortlessly stylish everyone seemed, their outfitswalking the fine line between formal and casual, as though the entire event had been plucked from a high-end fashion spread.

In the center of the room stood a long mahogany bar, its surface gleaming under the soft lighting. Behind it, a bartender mixed cocktails with practiced flair, his dark hair slicked back and a friendly smile on his face as he handed a drink to a guest. Bottles of liquor, arranged like a rainbow of glass, sparkled on the shelves behind him. A small chalkboard perched at the end of the bar advertised tonight’s specialty cocktail: the Vanilla Bean Old Fashioned.

“Would you like a drink?” Brad asked.

“I good,” she said, wide-eyed.

Brad stayed a step behind her as Isobel moved farther into the space. A soft voice pulled her attention to a corner where a group of people sat on a curved emerald-green sectional. They were deep in conversation, their tones relaxed but tinged with curiosity. She caught snippets of their discussion about the venue’s purpose—a mix of awe and intrigue in their voices. A petite woman with curly auburn hair caught her eye and smiled warmly, offering Isobel a silent welcome.

It wasn’t long before a man approached her. He was tall, with a presence that exuded quiet authority but also carried a touch of charm that was hard to ignore. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculately styled, and he wore a tailored navy-blue suit with no tie, the open collar giving him a relaxed but polished look. He extended a hand, his deep brown eyes locking onto hers with a hint of amusement.

“You must be Isobel,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. “I’m Jesse, the owner of The Loft. Welcome. Hello, Brad.” He shook his hand.

Isobel shook his hand, noting the firm but friendly grip. “Thank you. This place is... impressive.” She glanced around the room again. “You’ve created something really unique here.”

Jesse’s smile widened, a dimple appearing in one cheek. “I appreciate that. The Loft is meant to be a place where people can connect, explore, and be themselves. No judgment, no pressure—just an open space for conversation and discovery.” His eyes lingered on her for a beat, his gaze assessing but kind. “I hope you’ll find it welcoming.”

She nodded, already feeling more at ease. “It’s certainly unlike anything I’ve experienced before.”

“That’s the idea,” he said with a wink. “How about a proper tour?”

Isobel felt a subtle shift in the energy of the room. It wasn’t just the décor or the carefully curated ambiance—it was the people, their openness, their willingness to engage. For the first time in a while, she felt the beginnings of something stir inside her.

He led them downstairs. Brad maintained a reassuring hand on the middle of her back. Isobel stepped into the first room cautiously, her gaze taking in the details: the plush rugs underfoot, the ornate iron fixtures on the walls, and the faint scent of incense that lingered in the air. A rack of neatly arranged implements stood in one corner, polished and gleaming under the soft light. It was both inviting and intimidating.

“Every room has its own vibe,” Jesse continued as he led them back into the hallway. “Some are softer, designed for sensory exploration and intimacy. Others are a bit more… intense.” He smirked, glancing at Isobel as if to gauge her reaction. “But no one is pressured to do anything they’re uncomfortable with. Consent is our foundation.”

As they walked, Jesse pointed out a few other rooms. One had a tranquil, spa-like ambiance, complete with a massage table and a soothing waterfall feature. Another was darker, almost cavernous, with a heavy wooden frame dominating thecenter of the room. Brad watched Isobel closely as Jesse spoke, his eyes narrowing slightly every time her expression shifted—he was clearly attuned to her reactions.

At the end of the hallway, Jesse stopped in front of a door that stood slightly ajar. “This is our observation lounge,” he said, stepping inside. The room was larger than the others, with comfortable seating arranged to face a large, two-way mirror. Beyond the glass was another playroom, this one already occupied. A couple danced inside, their interaction sensual, deliberate and quite PG-rated, but the soundproofing left only the visual spectacle to those in the lounge.

Isobel’s breath hitched, heat rising to her cheeks as she glanced at Brad. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the set of his jaw that suggested he was watching her just as much as the scene beyond the glass.

Jesse’s voice softened, drawing her attention back. “This room allows people to observe without participating. It’s a way to explore at your own pace, see if this is something that resonates with you. No judgment, no obligation.”

Isobel nodded, her mind racing as she tried to absorb everything she was seeing and hearing. The space was more than she had anticipated, layered with nuance and intention.

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