Page 13 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
At some point, I look up and realize it’s well past midnight. My wine is gone. The candle’s low. And I’ve written more in five hours than I have in the past five weeks.
I sit back, stretch, and smile.
Sebastian Cabot may not believe in love stories, but that’s not going to stop me from writing him into the best damn one of his life.
CHAPTER 4
SEBASTIAN
It’s well past midnight, and the ceiling’s no help. I’ve counted every beam, every crack, and still—her laugh echoes like it’s carved into the bones of the house. Haunting. Familiar. Uninvited.
Kate Lawrence.
Her name is a lightning rod in my head, firing off memories I haven’t invited. I see her—barefoot under the porch lights, curls catching the sea breeze, laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I hear the sound again, low and musical, dancing through the darkness.
I remember that moment when she handed me the basket, her fingers brushing mine, the way she leaned in just enough to test boundaries—mine, hers, maybe both. I’d stood there like a damn statue, pretending it didn’t affect me. But now? I’m lying here, wide awake, feeling every millisecond of that interaction ripple across my skin. And it’s driving me insane.
Just saying or thinking her name sends a prickle down my spine and draws a sharp, breath-stealing knot low in my chest, like my lungs forgot how to work for a second. Like my body already knows she’s a problem before I’ve even had time to process why I care so damn much.
There’s a flicker behind my eyes—the flash of her laugh, the curve of her grin—and I’m hit with a jolt that pulls me out of the haze like a starter’s pistol. My chest tightens, breath catching like it’s tangled on her name. I sit up, every nerve on edge, heartbeat skidding into a stuttering rhythm I can’t control. It’s not just that I’m awake—it’s that I’m alert in a way that feels dangerous. Like she’s become the thread unraveling my carefully ordered world, and I’ve just noticed it’s already halfway gone.
A name that sounded innocuous a few days ago now rolls through my head like a thunderclap every time I try to think straight. Her smile. Her smart mouth. The way she walked across the grass barefoot and handed me that basket like she had every right to upend my day. Hell, my whole life.
The worst part? I haven’t slept. Not really. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
This morning, I get up early, before the crew is scheduled to arrive. I need to get ahead of my thoughts before they get ahead of me. I pull open the folding doors to the sunroom-turned-studio and step out into the morning air. The mist's still hanging low, softening the lines of the mansion’s half-stripped porch and the overgrown gardens waiting to be tamed. Everything’s still. Quiet, except for the churn in my head. I came out here to work—to forget. But all I see is her. Even the fog can’t blur her out.
I should be focused on the project. On the cracked veranda columns that need replacing before the storm season hits. On the unstable stairwell railing that failed the last inspection. On the team waiting for tile delivery that’s been delayed three times this week. I should be elbows-deep in blueprints, coordinating with subcontractors, reviewing updated wiring plans for the ballroom.
Instead, I’m replaying the way Kate leaned in yesterday, smiling like she knew exactly how much chaos she was leaving in her wake. Anything but Kate Lawrence and her damn muffins.
They’d been fresh out of the oven yesterday, still warm in the basket she’d cradled in her arms like an offering. They’d smelled like butter and sugar and something citrusy, bright enough to catch me off guard. When she’d handed them over, her fingers had brushed mine—light, deliberate—and her eyes had held mine just long enough to make the air feel too tight around my ribs. There’d been a knowing little curve to her mouth, like she’d already written the scene in her head and was watching to see if I’d follow the script or ad-lib something reckless.
And the way she’d looked at me yesterday—eyes steady, curious, unflinching—like she saw everything I didn’t say and wasn’t afraid of any of it. Like she was cataloging every crack and chink in my emotional armor and choosing to stay anyway.
I slam my coffee down too hard on the railing, the ceramic thudding against the wood with a sharp crack that echoes in the quiet morning. Liquid sloshes over the rim, searing my knuckles, and I curse under my breath, wiping it on my jeans like I can scrub the frustration away. My shoulders are hunched, fists are balled tighter than they should be. It's not the coffee. It's her. Always her.
Get it together, Cabot.
The project is my priority. The estate will become something new. Every beam, every nail, every design detail was chosen to honor the original while transforming the space into something that breathes elegance and control.
And privacy.
Because that’s what I’m building. Not just walls—but a fortress of order. Concrete edges, clean lines, logical seams that make sense when nothing else does. Structure that holds firm when the rest of the world tries to crumble. A space where Iset the rules, where everything has its place. A place where the past can’t reach me—where it wouldn’t even know how to knock. Control is my oxygen. And she’s a spark in a locked room.
Then a knock. Light. Cheerful.
I groan. It's her. It has to be her.
I brace for it, but the second I open the door and see Kate, barefoot again with curls wild from the breeze and a grin that should be illegal before 9 a.m., my defenses do something they never do.
They falter.
“I made orange cranberry scones,” she says brightly, holding out a pretty fabric bag like it’s some kind of truce. “Thought I’d try citrus this time. Might pair nicely with all that repressed emotional tension.”
I blink. “You say that like you think this is a pattern.”
She breezes past me, the soft brush of her shoulder against mine sending a ripple of heat down my spine. Uninvited. Unbothered. She moves like she’s got every right to occupy my morning, and somehow, I don’t stop her. And worse? Some traitorous part of me doesn’t mind. Hell, it leans toward her like a compass finding true north.
