Page 44 of The Social Affair (New Hope 1)

“Nope,” he exclaims. “Just the two of us.”

I nod, breathe a sigh of relief. I look around the living area. It’s a nice place. A little rustic, but charming.

“I have a guy who maintains the place. Brad. He makes sure things are kept neat and orderly,” he tells me, his hands full of bags. He refuses to let me help. I study the outline of his shoulders as he sets them in the entry way. They’re strong shoulders, wide. Large enough that you have to stretch yourself to wrap your arms around them. The kind Josh had. “I don’t find arriving to a cold, dark cabin all that appealing. Do you?”

I shake my head. He hands me one of the bags. “The shower is straight through there,” he points. “Put this on when you finish. I’ll get our things settled.”

The bathroom has been remodeled recently. It seems a bit newer than the rest of the place. I set the bag on the counter and carefully remove the items. There are only two: a white corset and panties. I hold them up and check myself in the mirror. Then I check the tag. He’s gotten the size right. The tag says La Perla, and I can’t imagine how much this cost. Or rather, I can, and it makes my heart race.

I shower, all the while thinking that I don’t really know how to put a corset on. I know I won’t look as good as Josie, or any of the women he sees on a daily basis for that matter. I consider how I might get out of it. He said there was a lot riding on this weekend, and I don’t want my flaws to be one of them.

There’s a soft

knock at the door. “You need help in there?”

“No,” I call out. My voice cracks. “I’m good.”

I keep the water running; meanwhile I towel off and try to get a head start at making myself presentable. I shaved this morning, and sprung for a bikini wax yesterday (never again) but the cold has caused stubble to make a reappearance on my legs. I know Grant Dunn appreciates perfection. I decide to look it up and see if the internet could help me figure out the corset situation. Also, I need to have a look at Instalook. I need to know Josie’s okay. Or at least find a reason not to feel bad about what I’m doing. Sometimes feelings sneak up on a person. But then I realize I left my phone on the bar. I make do with my imagination. When I’ve squeezed and shifted and arranged myself into Grant’s gift, I glance up at myself in the mirror. I hardly recognize the reflection staring back at me. Running my fingers through my wet hair, I fan it out. Then I trace the smudged mascara under my eyes until it looks like someone else standing there. A better version of myself. It’s really quite amazing what expensive underwear can do for a girl.

“Isobel,” Grant calls. “Come on. I can’t wait any longer…”

It sounds strange to hear someone call me a name that isn’t mine. He never asked if Izzy was short for Isobel—he just assumed, and so I let him. Sometimes it’s better that way.

“Coming,” I say, and I take one last glance at myself. I think of Josie when I flip off the light switch. Has he brought her here? Surely. But she’s never posted about it. That must mean it’s sacred. Lucky me. When I exit the bathroom, Josie Dunn slips from my mind. The cabin is lit by dozens and dozens of candles.

“Wow,” Grant says. He crosses the room in three strides. “You look even better than I imagined.”

He’s holding a glass of red, and I try to slide it from his hand.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “None of this for you.”

I furrow my brow.

He takes a sip and then sets the glass aside. “I’d like to talk first, and I can’t have you falling asleep on me.”

I smile. Wine does have that effect on me. I swear he thinks of everything.

“What are we discussing?” I ask, with the tilt of my head. I’m nervous, so I flirt. He remains serious.

“Our future.”

I laugh, because I think he’s kidding. “Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?”

“One can never be too prepared or think too far into the future, Isobel.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Josie

I wake up alone. It’s always a bit disconcerting to reach over to Grant’s side of the bed and find it empty. It’s not that it’s uncommon, given his profession, but a part of the agreement we have under the church’s guidelines is that a wife is to wake before her husband. Thankfully, for me, I’ve always been an early riser. Still, it’s a rule, and on the rare occasions I’ve broken it, it didn’t go unnoticed.

In the haze of the space between consciousness and sleep, I remember that Grant is out of town. I relax into the bed. I haven’t felt this rested in ages, I think, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I prop myself up on my elbows and glance over at the clock on the wall. Whew. It’s light out, but it’s still early. I always loved the endless feel of Saturday mornings, when time is expansive, when the day is all stretched out before you as though it will never end.

Grant has gone up to the cabin to do some work on it and meet with contractors. The cabin is his passion project, and I won’t lie, I was a bit relieved when he didn’t ask me to go. After the week I’ve had, it’s nice to have a weekend to myself.

Of course, that isn’t the case this morning. I have a meeting with Mel. Tom’s new wife seems to be acclimating well, or at least Beth seems to think she is, but it’s my duty to check up on her weekly, nonetheless.

I force myself out of bed pulling my robe tight. The house is quiet. James has gone to a debate team competition in Houston with the church. They like to show off the up and coming talent. But he seems to like it, and he’s good, like his father, so I let it be.

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