Page 8 of Just a Plot Twist (Tate Brothers #7)

Benson

Claire Lawson.

It’s been an interesting morning.

She was interesting. I could have never predicted I would be called upon to carry an injured, beautiful woman down a mountain, but I was, and I did.

And I didn’t hate it.

To be honest, as I drive away from the trailhead, I feel sort of powerful. Like some long-buried primal instinct to help the fairer sex was unleashed.

Yeah, my neck and back are sore. Like I told Mrs. Lambert, I’m not young anymore.

I have more aches and pains than I care to acknowledge.

I do go running most Saturdays, but lately my knees have been protesting that, thus the reason I joined the hiking club.

I’m hoping it’s a little easier on my joints .

I got a bigger workout than I’d bargained for.

But, despite the fact that she got under my skin, I also liked it. Too much. Because I haven’t had a woman in my arms for a long time.

It hurts to admit this, but I’ve gotten comfortable with the single life. I can usually convince myself that I’m okay with being alone, that I’ve had enough relationships to last a lifetime. That my newly found biological family and two kids are all I need to get by in life.

And then I go show up like a total hero and “save” a woman, and now I can’t stop thinking about piggybacking her down a mountain.

And how she looked after she got tucked into the backseat of Oliver and Sophie’s car after they came to the trail head.

It only took them a few minutes to get there after we made it down. She was vulnerable, subdued as they helped her in the back of the car. She was resigned, defeated, as she handed Oliver her car keys so he could drive it to her place while Sophie drove her in theirs.

And now, I remember her face. The clear green eyes, the way her lips curl into a smile almost all the time, like she’s got some secret joke in the back of her mind. And the way her body was pressed up against me while I carried her.

It’s the loneliness; that’s all.

Because Claire is frustrating and sarcastic. And my back hurts.

When I walk through my front door, Cinnamon greets me with enthusiasm, waddling toward me with her careful, padding steps.

Before long, it’s clear she’s had at least three separate accidents on my floor—two on the living room carpet and one in the kitchen—all of them avoiding the carefully placed piddle pads.

Disgusting .

No time to be lonely. I’ve got to figure out how to clean up this mess. I dump the contents of the canvas bag Mrs. Lambert left for Cinnamon out on the table and find the high-powered carpet cleaner specifically for pet stains.

As soon as I clean up, I pore over the rest of my townhome to make sure there aren’t more surprises, and Cinnamon follows my every move. “Yeah, that’s right. You need to see what you’ve done,” I tell her.

She yawns, stretching herself out in an indulgent down dog pose. She’s not one bit sorry.

“Showing off how flexible you still are, even in your old age?”

Yep. That’s us. Just an old guy striking up a conversation with a geriatric dog.

When I’m satisfied the rest of the house is clean, I flop down on the sofa, exhausted.

Indie and Dax are at swim practice right now, so I can’t pick them up until noon.

They’re going to go nuts when they see the dog, which makes me smile.

They’ve been asking for a dog for years, but I’ve been waiting for life to settle before making such a big commitment.

I consider stopping on the way to the aquatic center and getting a red ribbon to tie around Cinnamon’s neck.

No, I definitely can’t do that because then they’d think she’s a gift for them. A permanent gift.

“You’re nobody’s gift,” I tell Cinnamon’s smooshed-in face. Her big, dark eyes stutter blink as I tap her on the nose. “I don’t like you, but I can admit the kids are gonna think you’re cute,” I tell her begrudgingly. “You’re a deceptive little beast. A bundle of trouble. ”

She yawns and slobbery saliva drips out of her mouth and onto my lap. Nothing new. If I changed my clothes every time she slobbers on me, I’d have to do twice as much laundry.

“Whatever,” I growl, but Cinnamon doesn’t get what I’m laying down here. She doesn’t know she’s a pain; she’s just interested in the fact that I’ve gotten her leash out of the bag. She waddles over to the door to the garage and paws at it.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I tell her. “I’m not dumb enough to leave you here on your own if I can help it, you rascal.”

I grab her bag full of stuff and find clean rags in case she has an accident in the car. Should I pick up some doggy diapers? Hopefully these issues are just because she’s anxious about being with a new person.

One can only hope.

Thankfully, right as I’m leaving, I remember to check if she needs a drink of water before we go.

Cinnamon’s high maintenance in many ways, but one of the most time consuming is that she doesn’t drink water out of a bowl like a normal dog.

She has to have running water, which means she waddles to the bathtub and stands there until I turn on the cold water, pick her up, and hold her while she drinks from the faucet.

It’s ludicrous.

The swimming center is thirty minutes away, and by the time we get there, I’m as anxious as Cinnamon is. She does not like the car. She whimpers and scratches at the doors and leaves smudges on all of the windows.

Every last one.

I park the car and bring her in with me.

We’re early enough to watch the kids in the pool for the last part of practice.

Thankfully, the partition makes it so neither of them can see Cinnamon, and I ignore the annoyed looks from a couple of the parents waiting here for their kids.

It’s not ideal, but I’m not leaving her in the car until we figure out this bathroom situation.

Indie comes around the corner, wrapped in a huge, pink swim towel, pool water still dripping down her legs. She comes to a stop and squeals.

“Daddy, a dog?”

Her long, dark blonde braids have come loose, part of her wet hair plastering against one side of her face. She smiles her gap-toothed smile, and bang, right on cue, I melt.

“We’re just dog sitting for a couple of weeks. This isn’t permanent.”

Indie kneels down in front of Cinnamon and holds out her closed fist so she can smell her. Once Cinnamon is ready, Indie wraps her arms around Cinnamon’s neck and nuzzles her face against hers. “I’ll love you ‘til the day I die.”

“’Til the day you die? I said two weeks! You can love her for two weeks and then she goes.” This was exactly what I was afraid of—that the kids would get attached to her. Still, I can’t completely refrain from smiling.

“Goes where?” Indie asks.

I don’t have the heart to say “the pound,” because truly, I’m not going to let that happen. I can’t do that to this dog. I’m hoping someone can find a suitable home for her before then.

“To a new family. We’re just her foster family right now.”

“A dog?” Dax, who is thirteen, comes bounding towards us like he’s five again, with his wet slides slipping off his feet and his hand clutching his sagging swim trunks to his waist. He’s shot up the last several months, his baby chub thinning out so that now all his clothes are too short and a little baggy.

He’ll probably end up being taller than me when it’s all said and done .

“We’re dog-sitting,” I’m quick to add. “She’s not ours.”

“She drools a lot,” Dax says, but he’s grinning as he says it. I grin back, ruffling his dark, wet hair.

“Which is why you better grab your duffels so we can go. I think some of the parents are worried I’d let Cinnamon in the pool.”

Dax frowns. “Cinnamon? What kind of a name is that?” He bends to scratch the top of her head. She wags her stumpy coil of a tail and sniffs.

“The name her previous family, the Stacks, gave her, okay? It’s fine.” I maneuver the leash around people as we head to the exit, Cinnamon gazing longingly at both the kids.

Do not get used to this, Cinnamon.

“We should rename her Thor,” Dax says.

“No, how about Analisa!” Indie says.

“We can’t rename her. Cinnamon’s the name she’s had her whole life. And she’s an old lady, as far as dogs go.” I hold the aquatic center door open for the kids and when they pass through, then Cinnamon takes her turn.

I point to Indie with a grin. “How would you like it if we all the sudden started calling you Methuselah?”

Indie scrunches up her nose. “Ew, Daddy.”

“I’m just saying. And what if we renamed Dax, like, um…”

“Fuller Peabottom the Third,” Indie supplies, which garners a shove from Dax and a burst of laughter from me.

“Where did you hear a name like that?” I ask her before pressing the key fob to unlock the car. There’s a big shuffling of stuff as the kids get situated and they’re already arguing over who gets to have the dog on whose lap .

“I heard it in my brain.” Indie’s voice is sing-songy, as if to say there’s no telling where my wealth of knowledge comes from.

I want to her to understand how incredibly smart and clever she is.

I close my eyes a moment, making a silent wish that as she grows, whenever she’s pulled into believing she’s not all that—which will happen more than I want it to—she’ll remember who she is.

That she’ll have an inner strength that it’s taken me over forty years to find. A swift burn washes over my gut.

Please don’t lose your spark, Indie.

Dax buckles himself in the passenger seat beside me and then pats his lap so the dog will come sit with him.

I start to protest. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have the dog in the front seat.

I know almost nothing about being a dog parent, but it doesn’t seem like the best move, does it?

I mean, Cinnamon was up here on the drive over, but I couldn’t control it.

Am I supposed to get a dog car seat or something?