Chapter 4- Needing to Borrow Your Husband

Dawn's POV "By the way, I need to borrow Grant." Chelsea stopped halfway through folding a piece of packing paper. Slowly, she turned toward me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow rising. "Well, well, well." I frowned. "What?" A wicked little smile spread across her face. "Punkin, you know we're swingers, and I don't mind sharing. But you've never asked." I stared at her. Then burst out laughing. "Oh, for crying out loud!" Chelsea leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "What? I'm just saying. Twenty years of marriage to that useless ex of yours, and now you're finally ready to have a little fun?" I smacked her arm. "Not like that, you pervert!" She cackled. "Hey! Don't knock it until you've tried it!" "Trust me, Chelsea. I have absolutely no desire to borrow your husband for extracurricular activities." "Your loss. He's very talented." "LA-LA-LA! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" I slapped my hands over my ears. Chelsea laughed so hard she had to grab the counter. This woman. I swear. Now, before anyone starts clutching their pearls, let me explain something about my best friend. Chelsea and her husband, Grant, are swingers. Yep. They enjoy visiting adult clubs, occasionally inviting other people into their bedroom. Generally participating in activities that would probably make my grandmother roll over in her grave. Do I understand the appeal? Not particularly. Do I judge them? Absolutely not. They're consenting adults, happily married, and whatever they do behind closed doors is their business. Although Chelsea has a habit of forgetting that some details don't need to be shared over breakfast. Especially when I'm eating sausage. Seriously. There are certain conversations that should never happen while someone is holding a breakfast link. But I'll tell you something. Her stories have given me some fantastic material for my novels. And Chelsea knows it. Hell, sometimes she'll call me just to tell me about something that happened the night before. Naturally, I listen. Research purposes. Obviously. Anyway, back to the reason I actually needed her husband. "The movers put my bed frame in the garage," I explained. Chelsea blinked. "Okay?" "They were supposed to take it upstairs and put it in my bedroom." "Why didn't they?" "Apparently, because they decided carrying it into the garage was good enough." I threw my hands up. "I paid those people a small fortune to move my furniture across the country. "You'd think getting my actual bed into my actual bedroom would've been part of the deal." "Did you call them?" "Of course I called them!" "And?" "They apologized." Chelsea waited. I spread my arms. "That's it. An apology. Apparently, that magically transports several hundred pounds of furniture up a flight of stairs." She snorted. "Several hundred pounds?" "Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. But that thing weighs a freaking ton!" "Why didn't you buy a lighter bed?" I stared at her. "Thank you, Chelsea. That's incredibly helpful. "I'll just hop into my time machine and tell my younger self to purchase something made out of cardboard." She grinned. "You're welcome." I pointed toward the garage. "Anyway, I need Grant to help me get it upstairs." Chelsea opened her mouth. I immediately held up my hand. "And before you suggest it, no. This is not a girls-can-do-anything job." Her mouth snapped shut. I knew that look. Chelsea was a firm believer in girl power. And normally, so was I. But there was a difference between believing women were capable of doing things. And voluntarily crushing yourself beneath an oversized wooden bed frame. "I know what you're thinking," I told her. "Do you?" "Yes. You're thinking we can just carry it upstairs ourselves." "We could try." "No." "Dawn—" "Chelsea." "We're perfectly capable women." "Absolutely. Two strong, independent women who are also perfectly capable of recognizing when something is too damn heavy." She crossed her arms. "We could use furniture straps." "We could also use common sense." "You're no fun." "I'm forty years old, Chelsea. I have two children to raise and books to write. "I don't have time to spend six weeks in traction because we decided to prove a point." She laughed. "Fine! I'll ask Grant." "Thank you!" "But you know he's going to give you a hard time." "Of course he is. He's married to you. Sarcasm is practically a household requirement." Chelsea pulled out her phone. "Let me call him." I leaned against the counter, watching as she tapped his name. Grant and Chelsea had been married for years. And despite their rather adventurous personal lives, they were genuinely happy together. They laughed constantly. Teased each other. And somehow managed to communicate better than most couples I'd ever met. Including my own former marriage. Especially my former marriage. Which, considering my ex's preferred method of communication involved ignoring responsibilities until I handled them myself. Wasn't exactly a high bar. "Hey, handsome," Chelsea greeted when Grant answered. I rolled my eyes. Here we go. "Whatcha doing?" She listened for a moment. Then grinned at me. "So, Punkin needs to borrow you." I immediately pointed at her. "Don't you dare!" Too late. Chelsea's grin widened. "No, not for that." I groaned. She started laughing. "Apparently, her movers left her enormous bed frame in the garage, and she needs some big, strong men to carry it upstairs." I mouthed, Men? Plural? Chelsea waved me off. "Uh-huh. Yeah, that's what I told her." She paused. Then burst out laughing. "Oh, she's going to love that." I narrowed my eyes. "What?" Chelsea ignored me. "Okay, baby. Love you." She ended the call. Then slowly turned toward me. That smile. I didn't like that smile. Not one damn bit. "What?" I demanded. "Well..." "Chelsea." "Grant said he'd be happy to help." I relaxed. "Wonderful." "But..." And there it was. The dreaded but. "But what?" "He said there's no way he's carrying that monster upstairs by himself." "Well, obviously. That's why I asked for help." "So he's going to bring someone." I shrugged. "Fine. As long as they can lift the thing without destroying my staircase, I don't care." Chelsea's smile turned downright mischievous. "Wonderful." I stared at her. "Why are you smiling like that?" "Like what?" "Like you know something I don't." She slipped her phone into her back pocket. "Don't be ridiculous." "Chelsea." "Dawn." "Who is he bringing?" She picked up another box. "Oh, nobody you need to worry about." I narrowed my eyes. That was not an answer. Not even close. "Chelsea!" She laughed. "Relax, Punkin. He's just bringing a friend to help move your bed." I looked toward the ceiling. "Dear Lord, please give me patience." Chelsea snorted. "Pretty sure He's been working overtime on that request." "Keep talking, and I'm going to make you carry the damn bed yourself." She grinned. "Love you, too!" I shook my head and reached for my coffee. All I wanted was my furniture upstairs. A properly assembled bed. And maybe one peaceful night of sleep without wondering whether I'd packed something important in the wrong box. That wasn't asking too much. Was it? Apparently, I was about to find out.