Page 9 of Just a Plot Twist (Tate Brothers #7)

But Dax gazes at her, his hand lazily stroking her back. I’ll wait until we get on the freeway before insisting she go in the back with Indie. Because the look on his face is peaceful.

He’s thirteen, so I’m not messing with anything that’s peaceful in his life.

Another gut punch. A longing for life to make sense for him. For Dax to be able to find peace through the storms; for him to never doubt my love for him.

What these sudden gut punches are all about, I don’t know. But since the divorce, it’s been happening a lot.

Cinnamon takes up all the attention on the way to my place with the kids laughing over every little thing she does. Both kids pepper me with questions, most of which I have no clue about, like, Dax’s “How many puppies were in her litter?” and Indie’s “Dogs can smell fear, but can they smell love?”

Good questions, and I bumble through my answers, mostly shaking my head and telling them we’ll figure out how to be her foster family together.

And mostly, I just revel in the giddiness in the air because of Cinnamon. It’s temporary, I know. But I’ll enjoy it while I can.

Some of the magic, that budding happiness we experienced on the drive home, lessens when I made the kids help clean up the mess. I take care of the worst parts of it, but they need to understand what it’s like to have a dog. It’s not all fun and games.

Except, they act like it is. They play “keep away” with one of Cinnamon’s toys in my little, fenced-in backyard.

For an elderly dog, I have to hand it to her, she has good energy with the kids, bounding to and fro as they toss the soft toy back and forth between them.

She’s slow, but she’s still got some pep in her.

And of course, we bring Cinnamon along with us on the ride to take the kids back to their mom’s place on Sunday night. My weekends with the kids are a little bit tiring and a lot enjoyable, and it always stings when I have to take them back.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Indie has tears in her eyes when I drop them off. “Goodbye,” she says to Cinnamon. She looks up at me. “She’ll still be here next time, right? ”

She already asked me that twice before. And like before, I promise she will, even though they’re not coming next weekend. They’re going on a trip with their mom and stepdad.

On the drive home, Claire keeps coming to my mind.

It’s still a burr under my skin when we get home.

We didn’t exchange numbers, so when I get home and after getting Cinnamon fed, I text Oliver and ask him for his sister-in-law’s number.

When they showed up to help get her home safely, Sophie and Oliver fussed over her, so I know she’s being taken care of.

Still, I should check on her. It’s the decent thing to do.

Me, texting: Hi Claire. It’s Benson Kilpack. I got your number from Oliver. How’s your ankle?

Twenty minutes later, and still no response from Claire.

Why does that bother me? I carried her down a mountain, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in seeing her again.

Still, my parents taught me to be a gentleman, so while I wait around for a response, I take a pause from all things Cinnamon—it’s almost time for another dose of medicine and the dreaded skin fold ointment—to look up the local floral shop in Longdale.

I remember when my ex-wife, Danica, had a minor boating accident years ago, her coworkers at the clinic where she worked as a nurse bought her flowers.

It was a nice thing to do.

I choose a small, friendly looking assortment—a “bright and cheery mix” of daisies and tulips. At least that’s how the website describes it. That’s exactly what I’m going for. Cheery. Platonic.

I’m not about to send red roses to a woman, that’s for sure.

After I type in the city office building address, I get a response from Claire :

Hello to the guy who carried me down a mountain. My ankle is not broken, praise the heavens. How are you?

Me: That’s a relief there are no broken bones. As for me, I’ve been dog-sitting, so I don’t exactly know how to answer that.

Claire: You have a dog at your place? Lucky! When Sophie married Oliver, she took her Bernese Mountain Dog, Wilford, with her. I miss having the big lug around.

Me: Will you get another dog someday?

Claire: My grandparents don’t like dogs and they’re over a lot, so maybe not. Besides, my ankle needs to heal before I can even consider becoming a puppy mom.

Me: Makes sense. Cinnamon isn’t a puppy, though. She’s very much the opposite of a puppy.

Claire: Her name is Cinnamon? Awww!

Claire: All dogs are puppies to me. Send me a photo of her?

I stare at the screen. I could ask Dax to send me some of the photos he took on his phone over the weekend—I’m sure there are at least thirty.

But instead, without a second thought, I snap a selfie with the dog.

Before I have time to analyze how I look and pressure myself to retake it, I send it.

Who cares what Claire thinks about how I look in a photo?

She’ll only be paying attention to the dog.

I don’t care. I am not interested in Claire that way, and it’s good to remind myself of that.

I’ll date again sometime in the future, but there’s this block inside of me over it. I tell myself it’s because it would be too hard for the kids to have another stepparent added to the mix, and it probably would be. But it’s more than that .

I’m not ready. I was blindsided by Danica leaving me.

I’m standing on the edge of a fighter jet, with my parachute on my back, peering over the edge, waiting, knowing that the last time I jumped, my parachute didn’t inflate.

And as a result, even now, I’m still falling.

Still perched in the air, the wind shunting around me, making it hard to breathe. That’s my nightmare.

It’s a twisted sort of thing. And even though my youngest brother, Milo, has found a few nice, lovely women for me on the dating app he forced me to sign up for, I just can’t.

I’m not ready yet.

The buzz of an incoming text from Claire shifts my focus:

Oh my! She looks like a “Cinnamon,” spicy and sweet.

I pull up the photo. Right as I took the picture, Cinnamon’s tongue darted out, sweeping dangerously close to my cheek. I must have been too concerned with looking decent in the shot that I didn’t even notice what the dog was doing.

“Claire is right,” I tell Cinnamon with a growl. “You are spicy. A spicy little pill.”

And that’s when clarity hits me. I can’t send this woman flowers. I mean, carrying her down the mountain is enough to show my sympathies that she got hurt, right?

That was more than enough. I’m not ready to date, and flowers are a natural precursor to that whole thing.

I pull up the florist app again and cancel the order.