Page 20 of Just a Plot Twist (Tate Brothers #7)

I finally installed one of those temporary doggie doors on my sliding glass back door. She’s still high maintenance. It’s still a huge pain to lift her up into the bathtub and help her drink.

She’s the worst, okay?

But I guess it’s nice to have some company at my place during the week.

“I bet the landlady appreciates you.”

“Technically, Cinnamon isn’t hers. She belongs to my neighbor, Reggie. Well, former neighbor. He had to go into a care center and they don’t take dogs.”

“Oh, that’s sad. What’s your landlady going to do?”

“She mentioned the shelter, but that was just a scare tactic so I’d agree to dog sit.”

“That poor dog. First she loses her person and then she gets passed along to random people who don’t want her.”

“My kids want her,” I protest. For some reason, I don’t want Claire to think I hate the dog.

And for the record, I don’t hate her. Just strongly dislike her.

Hey, I’m allowed to have opinions about it, right?

“They’re good with her,” I continue. “They help me be patient.”

Claire nods. “Babies and dogs, man. None of us can compete.”

“Agreed. ”

A woman standing in front of us rotates to give us a pointed look, so Claire and I quit talking and try to pay attention to the tributes.

I glance at Claire. I will quit talking to her, but first one more thing. I lower my voice. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look?”

“Thanks.” She blushes a little as she adjusts the sleeve of her soft blue dress.

“My grandma picked out the dress. Sophie gently turned down the dress offer, but here I am, wearing it with pride.” She sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth.

“It wouldn’t have been my first choice, that’s for sure. ”

“What do you mean? It looks amazing on you.”

She eyes me dubiously. “The style’s a little dated. And it’s too tight.” She takes in a breath and presses her hand over her abdomen.

Nope. Not too tight. It’s perfect. Before I can try to convince her just how wrong her estimate on the sizing is, she steps closer so she can whisper. “You look nice yourself. I can’t believe you pulled off a tux in like a zero amount of planning time.”

I thank her. “My father wanted me to get one, and I’ve worn it a few times since I moved here. He tends to know a lot of high-powered people who throw high-powered events.”

“None as high-powered as this one, though. Surely.”

“Of course not.” And…now I’m grinning again like I can’t get enough of this woman.

It’s been nice to text her. And I’ve liked having someone to commiserate with about the dog. But also? I haven’t had this much fun back and forth with a woman in a very long time.

“How’s your ankle? For real? ”

“Well, with the remedies my grandparents have given me…they even brought over a TENS machine the other day…it’s doing okay.”

She turns to the swan handler, a tall, middle-aged man dressed in black who is standing on the edge of the doorway. “Your swans are mesmerizing.”

He only bows his head briefly before giving the swans side-eye, like a warning of I see everything .

“I heard they sometimes get algae as a treat, but at events, you get the feed. Because algae at something like this?” She makes a face.

“This is true,” the handler says.

A moment later, Claire side steps nearer to me and I’m caught up in her fresh coconut scent and the way her hair brushes against my neck. “He’s not too chatty is he?” she whispers.

I mouth the word, “nope.” Claire is being too chatty and we keep getting looks from people.

“The swans are hugging that far side of the pool. I wish they’d come closer,” Claire says.

The handler holds out a canvas feed bag. “If you toss them a small handful, they’ll come closer.”

She takes the bag, shoots a smile in my direction, and unrolls it. She plunges her hand into the feed, grabs a handful of what looks like cracked corn, and tosses it into the water.

And then, a bloodcurdling shriek.

Claire’s hand instinctively grabs mine as we cower away from the shrieking swans, all the more ear-piercing since the quartet has ceased playing.

That’s right. Shrieking swans.

In their clammer to reach the feed Claire threw in, the swans start duking it out, hissing and pooping and causing a ruckus. Soon, they slosh and tumble out of the tank, bringing with them a wave of water that puddles on the floor.

“Whoa!” The handler engages, his neck red as he faces the portable pool, spreading his hands wide and backing up. “Everyone step back!” he says over his shoulder to the crowd. He tosses Claire and me a look. “They don’t do this. Ever!”

Still holding hands, Claire and I shuffle out of the way, narrowly avoiding a line of cater waiters. The swans lift above the puddle a foot or so, their long wings flapping wildly.

“Maybe their wings are clipped,” I say to Claire.

And sure enough they start traipsing across the floor, attempting to fly.

Shouts of alarm echo through the ballroom as the swans enter and people bend and cower away to dodge them as they charge after each other.

It’s chaos as they run into people’s legs, waddling and squawking, leaving deposits of swan doo-doo near their feet.

An older woman looks like she’s about to faint and her husband wraps his arm around her waist to hold her up.

I never knew swans could be so destructive. Or loud.

They blare a big honk as the one in the front tussles into a cater waiter carrying a tray of appetizers. The tray is upended, and half its contents spill to the floor. And there’s another wave of hysteria over the crowd as the swans peck ravenously at the finger food.

But Claire’s hand is in mine. My heart starts to pound, and it has more to do with Claire’s touch than the swans going rogue. The warmth and pressure of her skin, smooth and soft, gives a zing straight to my core.

It’s not the first time we’ve touched. Carrying her on my back was more…up close and personal than this.

But this is nice. Somehow more intimate .

My head clears enough to become aware that Claire’s breaths are heaving, and her face is white. I place one arm around her back.

“I can’t believe they attacked each other,” Claire says, her voice warbling. “That was my bad.”

“No. The handler said they never do that. It was just a fluke.”

With the swans now preoccupied with the food on the floor, the handler approaches cautiously, talking to the swans in low, calming tones as they bristle and startle.

He gently guides one of the swans closer to him, helping to tuck its wings close to its body.

After he gets the bird close to the tank, it gracefully flutters in and the other one follows suit.

The handler turns to us. “Are you two okay?” When we nod, he continues, his face reddening. “I’ve never had that happen before.”

Most of the guests are still watching the ruckus with curiosity, but I sigh and gently maneuver Claire away.

“Everything’s fine now,” I whisper in her ear as we back away from the scene. There’s already a couple of event workers cleaning up the mess.

“I wonder if my grandparents know what happened from backstage?” Claire gives up a little, nervous laugh and points across the ballroom floor. “Oh look. There’s someone else who’s confused.”