Page 1 of Just a Plot Twist (Tate Brothers #7)

Benson

What do you do when the thing you want least in the whole world shows up on your doorstep?

You panic.

And then you hide.

“Benson?” Mrs. Lambert’s throaty voice is full of concern as she calls through the door. She’s my landlady. Is that the politically correct term these days? Or is it landperson?

Probably in her mid-seventies, a soft cloud of blueish grey hair cherubically framing her face, she smells of baby powder and muscle rub. She’s a sweet and salty woman—nutty, like one of those granola bars.

And she is going to absolutely ruin my day.

I inhale, counting down as I make a decision .

If I give in to Mrs. Lambert’s request—and I know exactly what it’s going to be—Dax and Indie would be excited. And I would be miserable.

I’m a single dad. I only have my kids on the weekends, not nearly enough. So yeah, of course I want to do things that bring a smile to their faces.

I pace, hidden in the kitchen like a coward. Ugh. Can I sneak out the back? Because I do not want to answer this door.

Eventually, the desire to excite the kids beats out my own discomfort, and I cave. I open my front door cautiously. I can’t let this get out of hand. If she’s looking for someone to take the dog permanently—it’s a big fat no.

Mrs. Lambert smiles sweetly, a wave of relief crossing her features.

A sharp bark rings out and I finally look down at the source: an English bulldog, white with tan smudges of spots along her back, her face sprinkled with dots of rust-colored hair.

Her too-small, floppy ears sit awkwardly on top of her large, round head like curly pig’s tails.

Her mouth pulls down into a permanent frown, her overbite adding to the scowl.

“You are home!” Mrs. Lambert says. Then her face falls, crumpling with lines of worry.

Which is standard for her. She’s got eight tenants in these townhomes of hers in Platte Park, a vibrant neighborhood in southeast Denver, and she watches over us like a mother hawk—all-knowing and often with a mini loaf of banana bread in hand.

Except right now, unfortunately, there aren’t any signs of banana bread. Just a large canvas bag on one shoulder and a face full of apology.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask, widening the door and eyeing the dog again. She was Reggie Stack’s dog before Reggie moved into a care center last week. He lived in the townhome two doors down from mine, and he was always nice, in a sort of vague, great-uncle sort of way .

Without relatives available to take her, care for the dog has fallen on Mrs. Lambert. She has been giving me those eyes all week—the ones that say, You. You’re the one I deem worthy to take me out of my misery with this dog.

And up until now, I’ve managed to avoid this conversation.

Mrs. Lambert brightens into a smile and steps over the threshold. The dog follows with an air of triumph. Mrs. Lambert’s glance over my shoulder takes in the whole of my living room and kitchen.

“Huh. I didn’t know you were this clean.”

“Thanks?”

“I mean, you’re a single dad—” She glances at me and I straighten my t-shirt on reflex. “And it smells like soup is on.”

I nod. “And how’s Reggie doing?” I ask as the dog sniffs her smooshed-in nose high in the air, salivating at the scent of the hamburger soup I’m cooking over the stove. Except, don’t English bulldogs drool for no reason? I’m pretty sure it’s a defining trait.

“He’s adjusting to the new place.” She points to the dog. “This one here is actually the reason I’ve come,” Mrs. Lambert supplies.

I refrain from responding with “Shocker!” and instead try to smile.

“Reggie’s failing health has required him to move to the care center. It’s especially sad because the center doesn’t allow dogs.”

Reggie already told me as much while his grandkids and I were helping him move.

He was as positive as one could have been in that situation.

He told me he was looking forward to the good meals and the social life.

He talked about the care center’s intense Canasta tournaments and his proximity to “the ladies.”

“I’ve been taking care of Cinnamon since Reggie left.” Mrs. Lambert gives the dog a sad smile .

Cinnamon sniffs along the perimeter of the kitchen, her hefty butt waddling with every labored step. Her corkscrew tail looks like one of my daughter Indie’s spiral curls when she was a toddler.

“I’m just…well, we need a more permanent solution.

” Mrs. Lambert’s voice warbles a little.

“It might be nice for your kids to get to experience taking care of a dog for a little while. It’s good for kids to do that.

” She takes a couple of steps into the kitchen and lifts a large canvas bag overflowing with dog paraphernalia off her shoulder, hefting it down on my kitchen floor. Like this is settled.

It’s not.

I offer a kind smile. “Mrs. Lambert, Cinnamon’s great, but I can’t take her. I often work ten-hour days. I’m not home enough to provide what she needs. I’m sorry. It’s not possible for me at this time.”

There. That should settle it.

Mrs. Lambert chews on her bottom lip and adjusts the glasses that have begun to slide down her nose. “My arthritis is worse than Cinnamon’s and I can barely hold her leash with my hands the way they are.” She winces as she expands and contracts her hand.

“I called the shelter. They’ll take her but she’s sensitive to loud noises and that place is teeming with noise.” Mrs. Lambert clicks her tongue. “Cinnamon is depressed enough with Reggie gone. She doesn’t need the trauma of a shelter, too.”

Now Cinnamon is sauntering all over my living room, snuffling along the perimeter as if it’s her own.

She returns to the kitchen and plants herself near the stove, wiggling her butt as she sinks down, immersed in the scent of the hamburger soup.

She’s content—matter of fact—with an air of annoyance, like this is where she needs to be and can the humans come to a consensus already and give me some soup?

Mrs. Lambert must notice my hesitation.

“Can you at least take her until I get back in town?” Mrs. Lambert asks, her painted-on brows going high. “I’d hate to have to take her to the shelter. But even that’s better than letting her loose on the streets.”

Why did she have to mention the shelter and the streets? What a low blow.

“Is there anyone else you can ask?”

Mrs. Lambert blinks and cocks her head to one side.

After a beat, she responds. “I’ve asked everybody.

Reggie’s kids and grandkids are a no-go.

None of them have the means or housing conducive to a dog.

You were my first choice, naturally, since you’re young and spry and have kids.

Reggie says Cinnamon loves kids.” Mrs. Lambert reaches down to run a hand along one of Cinnamon’s ears.

They look like they’ve been run through the dryer a few too much times and shrunk.

“But I came over a couple of times and you weren’t home. ”

“I do work a lot.” See? I’d like to say, I told you this was a bad idea .

I work for my father at the finance company he founded, and he’s counting on me to transition it into a digital powerhouse.

And I have a feeling things are going to get even more busy and stressful since I found some information that he’s absolutely not going to like. I dread breaking the news to him.

“And I’m not so young…or spry,” I add.

Mrs. Lambert tips her head back and laughs. “Nonsense. You jog on Saturdays.” Her smile is sly. “If you can jog, you can take care of Cinnamon. Easy. ”

“I work such long hours. What about Paul and Lisa?” That’s the couple whose townhome borders Reggie’s. They’ve got to be the next youngest in the complex.

“They’re in their forties , Mr. Kilpack! And they travel a lot on the weekends.”

“I’m in my forties, too.”

She looks at me like I’m lying.

“I am. I’m forty-one!”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a day over thirty-five.”

Now I know she’s the one who’s lying. My hair is already starting to grey a little. When I look at my father, it’s like looking in a mirror twenty years in the future. Years that I hope I get to have with him, since I didn’t get the first forty of my life with him.

I met my biological father after my biological mother and my adoptive parents—my real parents in every way that counts—all passed away in a span of two years.

Add being blindsided with divorce papers on top of that, it makes sense that, back in Seattle over a year ago, a friend of mine from work pulled me aside.

Hey, send in that DNA test you’ve had sitting on your desk for forever , he’d said. You’ve wanted to know for a long time. Just do it. Get some answers. You deserve closure.

He knew I was drowning. Alone.

And it’s been wild getting to know the family I never knew I had.

Thomas Tate and I? We’re making up for lost time, in our own, detached way. We’re not all buddy buddy. We don’t do lunches or play golf together. And the first few months of getting to know each other were rough .

But when he’s in the office on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and often in between—he’s trying to retire but can’t cut himself off completely—I’m there, working down the hall from him as the company’s Chief Technology Officer.

We’re making it work.

“You say Paul and Lisa travel a lot, but I do as well. You know this.”

She clicks her tongue. “But your ex-wife and kids have moved to Highlands Ranch! You’re not spending your weekends in Seattle anymore.

” She cranes her neck in the direction of the staircase beyond the kitchen.

“Speaking of the kids, where are they? They’re usually here on Friday nights, aren’t they? ”

Not that it’s any of her business, but I open my mouth to explain anyway. “They usually are, but they both got invited to parties with friends in their neighborhood tonight.”

Indie and Dax have swim on Saturday mornings, so I’ll pick them up after that.