Page 50 of The Social Affair (New Hope 1)

“The eggs are amazing,” I mention between bites. Most things are in small doses.

“This is your future,” he says. He stands, walks over to me, and takes the sheet. Every inch of me tenses. It’s freezing. “You just have to let me take care of you, Isobel.”

I smile. He kisses me hard. I forget about the cold.

The guy who manages things, comes and leaves our meals on the porch. He doesn’t ring the bell, he doesn’t have to. When I search the kitchen for a snack, Grant explains that meals are delivered at precisely seven a.m., noon and seven p.m. On the dot.

On our second day there, I search for my phone again. I don’t want to ask Grant for it. I don’t want him to think I’m not having a good time. Still, I want to check Instalook and also to make sure there are no messages from Stacey. I haven't taken an entire weekend off. Ever. Surely, there's something about the place she doesn't know. More than anything, it’s killing me that I don’t know what Josie is up to. I need to know what she does in her free time. Honestly, I’m so bored here I don’t know what to do with myself, and it would be nice to know the kind of thing Grant likes.

“Have you seen my phone?” I ask when I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve read the same Austin Home and Garden magazine three times. “It was here,” I say, pointing at the bar.

“You don't need your phone,” he tells me, staring at his own. “Let it be.”

“It's about the shop,” I say. “Work.” I figure he must know a thing or two about that.

He flicks his hand. “Let it be.”

“Stacey, the owner— she doesn't know how to run it.”

He gives me the side eye. “That's her business.”

“Yeah, but—” I watch as he massages his temples and I stop myself.

“You're going to have to learn, as well, whose business is whose.”

I adjust the corset.

His eyes scan my body. “Just relax,” he says. “That's what we're here for.”

I do relax, because he isn't wrong and it would be nice for Stacey to learn to manage things on her own.

Later that afternoon I'm reading the same magazine for the fourth time on the couch when he throws me a T-shirt, a pair of his boxers, and a hoodie. “Put that on. We’re going for a run.”

“A run?” I laugh. “I don't run…”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “You do now.”

I’m going to die. My chest is seizing up. I can’t breathe. I don’t know how far we’ve run into the woods, but I do know it wasn’t very far before my side cramped and I go from a run, to a jog, to a mere hobble. My legs feel like jelly. The pain in my ribs feels like someone’s jabbing at me with a fire poker. It’s hot, and it’s spreading. I have no idea why anyone would want to do this sort of thing for fun.

I stop and double over. “I haven't gotten this much exercise since junior high school, and maybe not even then.”

“This is really bad news,” Grant eyes me cautiously. I’m just glad he’s trained in CPR. I think I’m going to need it. I expect him to laugh at me. I expect him to crack a joke. But he doesn’t. When I push myself up and meet his eye, his expression is fixed. “Your health is poor.”

I cock my head. He’s serious. “I never get sick.”

“It's just a matter of time,” he counters. “And I should know, I'm a doctor.”

“I can't go on,” I tell him, panting. I sound like an asthmatic, when really he’s right. I’m very out of shape. But who cares? The way I see it, there are only a few reasons to run and pleasure isn’t one of them.

“I’ll meet you back at the cabin,” I say reaching for a tree. I need to ground myself. It feels like holding on will give me life. Oxygen. Balance. I grip it hard, like it’s a lifeline. My stomach turns. I’m suddenly glad breakfast was sparse. I feel it creeping up my throat. “Seriously,” I assure him. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

I hope he believes me. It’s too early in our relationship for vomit.

I feel him behind me. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

My breaths have become short and raspy. My pulse is thrumming in my ears. His mouth is on my neck. I feel him bite softly. I try to turn to him. My head is swimming. He holds me in place and slides the boxers down. The g-string remains in place. He hits my ass. Hard. I jump. There isn’t much wiggle room.

This isn’t funny. I feel dizzy.

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