Page 14 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
“Oh, I know a pattern when I see one,” she says. “Broody contractor. Haunted eyes. Excessive use of black t-shirts and light wash Levi's. It’s practically its own trope.”
"Trope?" I ask, standing next to the door like I expect her to come back.
"Yeah, you know, trope... a common, sometimes overused, theme, subject or narrative device," she answers, throwing it back over her shoulder like everybody and their brother uses the term.
For the record, architects do not.
I follow her to the kitchen, watching as she pulls a scone from the bag and places it on a festive paper napkin with theatrical care.
“What do you want, Kate?”
She turns, leaning against the counter. Her tone is light, but there’s something sharp behind her smile. “A conversation. Maybe a quote for the next scene I’m writing. You are, after all, my reluctant muse.”
I raise a brow. “I'm what?”
"My muse... you know..."
"I know what a muse is, and I'm not yours."
“Wanna bet?” she fires back, eyes dancing. “I don’t know how to tell you this, big guy, but
you don't get a vote. I would have thought a smart guy like you would know that’s what happens when you insult romance novels to a romance novelist. We get revenge through fictionalized hot carpenters—or in your case, architects—with commitment issues.”
I stare at her. “You think... I don't have..." I groan. "You’re something else.”
The words come out rougher than I intend, edged with surprise. Something about the way she storms into my space like she owns it, barefoot and beaming, jabs at the part of me that hasn’t felt alive in forever and a day. I don’t know whether to admire her or barricade the door.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “So are you, Sebastian Cabot. You just don't want anyone to know, so you hide it better.”
A sharp ache twists beneath my ribs, sharp and unexpected and unwelcome, like a cord pulled taut without warning. I look away, busy myself with the coffee pot.
"Oh god, you don't actually use a drip coffeemaker, do you?"
"What's wrong with my Mr. Coffee machine?"
She rolls her eyes. "No one uses them anymore. You either need the expediency of a pod coffee maker or the panache of a French coffee press. I personally prefer the press, but my guess is you would prefer the quick response of a pod maker like a Keurig."
I stare at her. It’s not even judgmental. It’s clinical. Like she’s diagnosing a moral failing with caffeine. She's not making fun of me, she's actually serious. Well, okay, maybe she's having a bit of a laugh at my expense.
Before I can respond, she keeps on going. The girl just doesn’t let up.
“You know, the whole wounded-loner shtick doesn’t scare me off,” she says, her tone laced with mischief. “I write heroes who bleed on the inside, crack dry jokes at inappropriate moments, and build furniture or skyscrapers because therapy's too mainstream.”
I give her a slow look. “That sounds suspiciously like a personal attack.”
She grins. “Only if you think I’m describing you. Are you broody with bonus woodworking skills?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “And here I thought you were just here to ply me with muffins for some nefarious purpose.”
“Oooh, ‘nefarious’—breakin’ out the five-dollar words now,” she teases, then adds more seriously, “Don’t get me wrong. Finding someone to feed my muffins to is great. But the mystery? That’s the real fun.”
I take a slow sip, then lean against the counter across from her. “You ever consider you might be playing with fire?”
“I write love stories for a living. Fire is kind of the point.”
We lock eyes. The air shifts. Heat creeps up my neck, and my pulse stutters—just for a second, just enough to notice. The space between us contracts like it’s holding its breath. It’s notplayful now. Not really. There’s a softness in her expression, all teasing stripped away, like she’s seeing through the walls I thought I’d reinforced.
The worst part is, I'm not sure I don't want her to. That realization lands like a punch to the ribs, unexpected and too damn real. She’s watching me with an openness that makes something twist low in my gut—a need I haven’t let myself feel in far too long.
