Page 24 of Just a Plot Twist (Tate Brothers #7)

Claire

Melty, velvety cheese sauce passes my lips, and I can’t stop the groan. It’s inevitable. No use fighting it.

Benson’s gaze darts to mine. He heard me, huh?

I rest my burger on the napkins spread out on my lap and use another napkin to wipe my mouth. I’ve got to rein it in. I’m pretty sure I was eating like a two-year-old.

But Benson just smiles and nods as he takes another bite.

I almost asked him to take me home, and I’d worry about getting my car later. He’s right when he says I need to elevate my ankle and take it easy. But I’m not ready to go hang out at my place with him. And I’m really not ready to say goodbye for the night.

“Burgers, man. Burgers. Are. Life,” I say, once I’ve chewed and swallowed. “Bless those chefs at The Summit. ”

He swallows. “Bless Drake.”

“Yes. Bless Drake and the chefs.”

“Bless the food manufacturers.”

“And the farmers.”

“And the waves of wheat for the bun.”

I suppress a giggle. “And bless the teensy tiny mustard seed that gave us this delicious condiment.” I lick the bit of mustard sliding down the outside of my bun.

“Don’t forget the lettuce farmers.”

I raise what’s left of my burger in the air like I’m raising a glass to those brilliant lettuce farmers.

“And what about the cows?”

“Can we not talk about the cows right now?” I shoot back. “I’m enjoying this too much.” I reach down to adjust the ice pack that’s awkwardly positioned on my ankle. I discarded my shoes—supple, nude, slingback pumps with barely a heel—on the floor of the car a while ago.

“Probably wise.”

I laugh and take another sip from my to-go cup of Coke. We’re silent as we finish our food and then lean back in our seats with contented sighs.

“I’m so full.” I rub my belly. One should not eat a cheeseburger in this dress.

Benson shed the suitcoat before we even arrived at the beach parking lot, and now he undoes the top two buttons of his white shirt and loosens the tie completely. It’s hanging around his neck like a silk rope of wonder, perfectly showcasing his golden-hued skin and collar bones.

It’s sexy. I wish I could take a photograph of that throat.

I wish I could nibble on it like I’m nibbling on these fries .

I gather the garbage and stuff it in the to-go bag to try to keep my mind off all that. All that needs to be repressed now.

“How’s your ankle?”

Good. Let’s think about something besides his throat.

“It’s okay.”

At his dubious look, I finagle. “It is. I didn’t reinjure it or anything. Maybe it would be nice to sit on the beach, though, and stretch my legs out.”

His eyebrows lift. “You don’t want to go home yet?”

My mouth twists to one side, my eyes on my lap. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“I don’t know. Do you ?”

The lightness in his voice squeezes my stomach with something of a thrill.

I meet his gaze and shrug. “I’ve had fun with you, despite nearly getting bludgeoned by swans, falling flat on my back in a fancy dress in front of at least two hundred people, and embarrassing my grandparents in their one shining moment.”

“So, see? We can’t go home now. There’s so much to dissect.”

I smack a hand over my face. “No need to dissect. Please. Besides, you fell, too. Why are you not dying right now?”

“Maybe I am.”

The ease in his voice makes me drop my hand to look at him. But something in his expression tells me he’s not talking about dying of embarrassment. It’s like his gaze is prodding me to pick up on something else entirely .

Something zips down my middle—a woosh—so I turn to open my car door.

The cool night air and the soft swishing sound of the waves in the darkness reach me as I rotate my legs and settle my feet on the sand.

He tells me to wait so he can help, then darts out of the car and opens the trunk.

By the time he’s reached my side with a big blanket, I’m standing on one foot, ice pack in hand.

He tucks the blanket under one arm and offers his other one to help me step onto the sand. I lift the hem of my chiffon dress as we take several slow steps, my arm hooked through his. His throat is laid bare, and the bowtie is hanging there like he’s dripping off the cover of a magazine.

“This is good here,” I say pointing to the sand in front of us, a small spot clear of bitterbrush and sage. It seems we have the beach to ourselves.

Benson spreads the denim blanket out carefully under the moonlight.

My ankle’s not hurting too much, but it’s nice to have his support as he grasps my elbow so I can gingerly sink down onto the blanket.

I fluff out the baby blue chiffon and tug on the front of the matching tie around my waist. I ate too much.

“What about your dress?”

“My grandmother picked it out and paid for it and, not to sound ungrateful, but it’s not my favorite.” I fluff out my skirt again. “I’m not worried about a little sand.”

His gaze takes me in—quickly—before meeting my own. “You don’t like it? You look like a million bucks.”

“Thanks. If I had my choice, I would have gone with something easier to walk around in. Something less formal. Definitely less tight.” I meet his gaze. “You manage to look comfortable in a tux, though. ”

He grins as he fiddles with the corner of the blanket again. “Comfortable?”

“I mean. You look….you’re very handsome. It takes a certain skill set to look at ease in a tux.” I clear my throat. “And please don’t tell my grandma that I don’t like the dress.” I laugh.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He sits down next to me, one foot off the blanket in the sand, the other tucked under his leg, his arms around his knee. He watches the water as lights from the nearby dock dance along the surface.

In profile, his lips take on a different quality. They’re always attractive but right now, with the moonlight and the lights from the dock, they’re mesmerizing.

“That was some party,” he says with a whistle. Then he tilts his head at me. “I like your grandparents.”

He laughs at the look I give him. “I do,” he insists. “They raised you, didn’t they? It’s obvious they did a good job.”

I dip my head. There’s so much about his own parents I want to ask about. I know so little about his life, about his birth mother and adoptive parents.

“My grandparents have good qualities underneath their armors of bone and steel.” I laugh. “And I’m happy that they made it to sixty years together. It’s impressive. How long were your parents married?”

“They made it to their fiftieth anniversary before my dad died. Thomas and Celine are nearing forty years together. It’s nice to see it can be done. I wonder at times, considering my track record. ”

“You just have the one ex-wife right? When you say track record, I worry you have a whole gaggle of them.” One can’t be too careful with these things.

He shakes his head. “There’s just the one. One ex-wife is more than enough.” He meets my gaze and lifts a hand. “It’s not like she’s hard to handle or anything like that. I’m saying that because I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

“I’m sure it’s been hard. I can’t even imagine.” I sigh. “Looks like neither of us is looking to date, which is good.” My tone is light. Flippant. But is that actually true for either of us?

He said he didn’t want to go through that again, so what’s “that,” exactly?

Dating?

Marriage?

All the above?

“It’s been over a year since the divorce was final, and I might feel ready to date again.

Kind of. Well, I’m both ready and terrified at the same time.

” He chuckles. “There was a time when I seriously doubted I’d find someone again.

Because of the past, the whole idea has me sick to my stomach.

But some things have happened lately that have been a crash course, of sorts.

” He looks over at me. “I’ve been thrown into the pool feet first and it’s actually not too bad. ”

I can’t suppress a smile. “What do you mean?”

“I think we’ve had a very full night, Claire. I’ve fallen on top of you, for starters. That counts for a lot of inter-relational growth right there. I mean, I basically pinned you to the floor.” He holds up his hands. “Unintentionally. ”

My cheeks flush at the memory of the weight of his body so…thoroughly on top of mine. But I have to come back with a joke. “I nearly died, so of course we’re bonded there. And we’ve eaten burgers together. That’s not nothing.”

“You’re right. It’s not nothing,” he says. “And what about dancing the waltz? That’s big right there.”

“True.” I laugh. “We’ve had a nice time together.” But I sober because this isn’t a laughing matter. Not really.

I like him. I’m very drawn to him. He’s not what I thought I wanted.

Except it feels impossible to start something with him—my sister’s brother-in-law—when I’m trying to prove to the mayor that it’s a good move to hire me.

I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not readying myself to get pregnant with twins.

Besides, he’s a single dad. That opens up a whole world of new things I never considered before.

Still, I like being around him. And I sort of…don’t want to stop.

His expression changes to a big smile. “I never showed you the photos of Cinnamon that my kids sent.” He rotates his phone, and I swipe through. Some are selfies that show the kids’ faces.

“Your children are adorable, Benson.”

His grin is goofy as he stares at the last photo. It’s a selfie with Dax sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth. Indie’s face is smashed next to his, her chin tucked down, so she can give Cinnamon, who is filling the bottom of the frame, a kiss on the top of her head.

“They really do love that dog.”

His sigh turns into a soft growl. “Yeah, they do. Which is going to be a problem when Cinnamon gets returned to Mrs. Lambert.” He takes the phone back and grins at the photo.

“I kinda like that they’ll still press their faces together for a picture.

It’s a ticking time bomb, though. Dax is thirteen.

He’s not going to tolerate that from his sister too much longer.

” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down once as he swallows.

“Eh, you never know. Sophie and I still act like idiots in front of the camera. It might not go away.”

“I hope you’re right. I’m missing stuff in their lives because of the split custody. Someday, it’s going to be gone without me even realizing it.”

“You’ll always be their dad.”

He nods. “Ever since the divorce, there’s this sense of dread, like when’s the next shoe gonna drop?”

“It makes sense that your brain is bracing itself for the next possible hit.” I swallow hard. I’ve been curious about his divorce, but it wasn’t ever the right time or place to bring it up. This is the second time he’s mentioned his ex, and his expression is so open now that I venture ahead.

“Was the divorce a surprise?”

At the click of his tongue, I backpedal. “I mean, was it sudden or did it come about slowly over time?” I massage my forehead. “That’s probably too personal. Sorry.”

The look in his eyes guts me.