Page 18 of Just a Plot Twist
After he makes sure I’m okay leaning up against a tree trunk, he stretches his neck, arms, and back. My injury isn’t my fault. But it’s also not his fault that he has to do this, either.
He takes his phone out of his pocket. “I have service now. Are you okay if I text Oliver? You’re going to need some help getting around once we make it down.”
“I’ve already completely lost every ounce of dignity I have, what’s another person knowing?” I have cell signal as well, so I text Sophie and Inez, trying to keep my cool as I give them the bare bones of the story.
A few people from the hike pass us as they head down. Did I somehow miss Rich and his wife? That would be nice. I cannot appear weak and helpless around Rich McClain.
We only rest a couple of minutes before I’m in Benson’s arms again, his competent stride back into our familiar rhythm.
Heavy steps behind us tell me we, unfortunately, didn’t avoid Rich. “Heard about your injury, Claire,” Rich says. “I told Al I’ll take over as guide on the descent. We’re about a half-mile away from the bottom.” Rich steps up and matches Benson’s gait. He pats Benson’s shoulder. “How you holding up, buddy? Need me to take a turn?”
No. No, no, no. This is bad enough, but Rich carrying me down would kill me dead. Completely and irreversibly dead.
“I’m actually enjoying it,” Benson tosses back over his shoulder, his gaze flicking in my direction. There’s nothing teasing in his tone or in the look in his shining, dark eyes.
I ignore Rich’s whistle and Liesel’s laughter. Because as crazy as his words are, part of me wonders if he actually means it.
Chapter 6
Benson
Claire Lawson.
It’s been an interesting morning.
Shewas 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.
