Page 1 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
PROLOGUE
KATE
Isign the last book with a flourish, the silver Sharpie bleeding slightly on the glossy title page.Love Me Again,number three on the bestseller list for two weeks running.
The woman in front of me beams like I’ve handed her a lottery ticket. “You’re amazing,” she gushes. “I finished it in one night and cried the whole time.”
I smile, tuck my pen behind my ear, and thank her for the hundredth time today. Inside, I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, stitched together with caffeine and obligation. The smile feels like a performance now—too practiced, too brittle.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful—I love my readers—but I am tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary, overstimulated tired. Six weeks of city-hopping and bookstore Q&As, shaking hands and telling wide-eyed college girls to chase their dreams… and I’m running on caffeine, dry shampoo, and anxiety.
The moment I’m out of this hotel ballroom, I’m crawling into a rental car and heading straight for Pelican Point. A coastal cottage, ocean breeze, and silence that doesn’t demand anything from me. I’ve earned that much.
The irony isn’t lost on me—especially considering less than twenty-four hours ago, my fiancé looked me straight in the eye and ended our engagement like he was canceling a dinner reservation. My ears rang. For a second, I honestly thought he was joking. That any second, he’d crack a smile and admit it was some kind of sick, ill-timed prank.
I was surprised to see Roger at the hotel last night, but the reason for his visit became all too clear.
"Kate," he’d said, not even meeting my gaze as he adjusted his cufflinks. "You know we’ve been drifting. You’ve got your tours and your books, and I’ve got the firm. It’s not working."
I’d laughed—actually laughed—because it sounded rehearsed. Like dialogue from a bad made-for-TV breakup scene. "Are you serious?"
"I’ve already moved your things out," he said. "And I booked you ten nights at the Four Seasons. Room service is included. Figured you’d need time to find a new place."
And with that, he’d turned and walked away. I stood there in the hotel lobby with my jaw on the floor and my heart somewhere around my ankles. No warning. No conversation. Just cold precision. Like I was an inconvenience to be relocated.
I didn’t cry. Not then. Just stood frozen while people passed by, a blur of suits and heels and conference badges, like I was the ghost haunting my own relationship.
So no, the irony isn’t lost on me—jilted romance author seeking solitude. I need to remember what it feels like to be quiet. To breathe without producing. To sit with a blank page and not immediately think of deadlines.
Besides, the new book isn’t coming. Not even close. Every idea feels recycled. The characters fall flat. The sex scenes read like Mad Libs. If I don’t get out of my own head—and this damn city—I’ll never write again.
Pelican Point is a Hail Mary. One last shot to rekindle the spark. A tiny slip of a town on Florida’s Gulf Coast, full of pastel storefronts and front porches and—if I’m lucky—a little bit of magic.
“Miss Lawrence,” says my assistant, Jenny, poking her head around the curtain. “Car’s waiting.”
Bless her. “Let’s go.”
I grab my tote bag, ignore the mountain of emails on my phone, and walk out without looking back. Thank god we never had joint accounts or co-mingled our funds. By the time I hit the highway, top down on my Mazda Miata, wind in my curls, and the salty air of the Gulf Coast creeping closer with every mile, I swear I can almost feel the story stirring. Not fully formed, but there—humming like a forgotten song I might remember if I just turned the volume down on everything else.
Somewhere around Tallahassee, I called the Four Seasons and ordered breakfast and a three-course dinner complete with a bottle of expensive wine to be delivered to my room each day—perfectly plated, beautifully presented, and promptly picked up when the next meal is delivered. Petty? Maybe. But if he was going to treat me like a temporary inconvenience, I’d make sure every dollar of that ten-night stay was billed in high style.
Twelve hours later, I’m hauling what few boxes I brought—just the essentials I’ll need for the next six months—up the front steps of a whitewashed cottage that looks like something out of a Nancy Meyers film. That is if Nancy had a soft spot for creaky shutters and slightly overgrown flower beds. It’s not perfect. But that’s the point. I need something that doesn’t come polished or staged. Just… real.
The rest of my life is crammed in a storage unit two counties over, waiting for me to figure out what comes next. I haven’t even finished setting down my favorite plant before the man next door stalks past with a grunt that might’ve been a greeting…or indigestion. He scowls at the planter I set on the railing, slams the door to his truck so hard it makes the porch vibrate, and vanishes inside the estate like he’s auditioning for the role of brooding misanthrope. I should be annoyed. Should say something snarky. But I don’t have the energy to care. Not today.
And if that man—who’s living in the estate on which my little rented cottage sits—happens to be the human equivalent of a brooding Greek statue, all chiseled jaw, stormy blue eyes, and forearms that look like they could snap a two-by-four? And if that sculpted, scowling man is also as grumpy as a bear with a hangover? Well. That’s just a bonus. Because even I can admit—purely for observational purposes, of course—that he’s the kind of gorgeous male that makes metaphors leap onto the page before I can stop them.
SEBASTIAN
The memory of Chicago is a knife I can’t seem to stop twisting in my gut.
Too many years grinding through high-stakes architecture projects, slaving under deadlines that turn sleep into a rumor. Every day blending into the next, an endless cycle of late-night client calls, ego-stroking boardroom presentations, and contracts that suck the life out of creativity.
And for what? A corner office and a title no one respects once you’re past forty?
When I hit rock bottom—burned out, bitter, and one whiskey away from walking off a job site mid-foundation—I wasn't expecting the call, but I should have been. Rock bottom doesn’t come with flashing signs. Sometimes, it’s the silence betweentwo heartbeats, when you realize you’re not sure who you are without the grind. Somehow the Boss always knew when one of us needed him.
“Cabot,” I answer gruffly, already regretting picking up the phone. It’s a Sunday.
