Page 12 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
He snorts. "Bribery?"
"Not unless you count the emotional kind. I like to think of it as inspiration. For both of us."
His lips twitch, almost a smile. Almost. "You always ambush people trying to do their jobs with baked goods, or am I special?"
"Special. Definitely. You’ve got that broody, emotionally constipated vibe that screams 'feed me, I’m starving but too proud to say it.'"
He stands and wipes his hands on a rag tucked into his belt. "You have a real way with words."
"That’s kind of my job," I say sweetly, offering the basket like it’s a peace treaty wrapped in lemon and poppyseeds.
He peers into it, then back at me.
"Go on, take one or two or the whole basket," I tease. “Or think of it as a peace offering with frosting on a very compelling enemies-to-lovers plot."
That gets a grunt—maybe a laugh—his eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. "You have all the subtlety of a freight train."
"And you’re not nearly as grumpy when you’re chewing. Interesting."
He stands, wiping his hands on a rag before taking a slow, deliberate step forward. His gaze travels from my face to my toes and back again, and I feel a thrill dance down my spine.
"You really don’t quit, do you?"
"I’m a romance author. Persistence is my brand. Well that and muffin-based manipulation."
He plucks one out of the basket and takes a slow bite. Chews. Then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying very hard not to admit it’s good.
"You’re welcome," I say sweetly.
He shakes his head, but there’s the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "You’re trouble."
"You have no idea," I say with a wink, pivoting on my heel and sauntering away.
Behind me, I hear him mutter, "God help me," and I grin like a woman with a deliciously chaotic plan.
When I glance over my shoulder, sure enough—he’s watching. Brooding. Half-eaten muffin still in hand.
Back inside the cottage, I close the door, lean against it, and grin.
That night, I light a candle, pour a glass of wine, and open my laptop. The blinking cursor isn’t taunting me anymore. There’d been no spark, no tug of inspiration, just a hollow ache where the words used to live. But now, the story is calling.
I think of Sebastian. Of porch chats and stolen glances. Of how one night, one person, can loosen the knots you didn’t know you’d tied.
This isn’t about proving anything. It’s about coming home to the page.
And tonight, for the first time in forever, I just write.
The candlelight flickers across the pages of my notebook beside me, and I think about last night—Sebastian's voice, low and rough, the way he looked at me when he didn’t think Iwas watching. How something in me stirred, something that hadn’t stirred in months. Maybe longer. Maybe since before the last book tour, before the publisher deadlines and perfect social media photos and hollow smiles. Maybe even before Roger.
This isn’t just writing—it’s breathing. It’s rediscovering why I fell in love with stories and storytelling in the first place. The characters taking shape on the screen aren’t simply fiction. They’re fragments of me, fragments of him, stitched together with all the longing and possibility I’ve kept bottled for too long.
As my fingers hit the keys, the truth lands quietly: this isn’t about proving anything to Sebastian. It’s about reclaiming my voice—remembering that I still have something worth saying.
The flickering light casts soft shadows across the walls. And for the first time in ages, I don’t feel like an imposter in front of my laptop.
I just write.
Words pour out like they’ve been waiting for this. For him. My fingers fly across the keys as the story takes shape—about a woman with a broken heart and a man who doesn’t believe in second chances. About walls and wounds and slow-burning redemption. About flirting on porches and stealing glances and healing through heat.
