Page 18 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
A pause stretches between us. The wind picks up, fluttering the edge of a tarp near the porch. His gaze drops to the basket.
“Those for me?”
“No,” I say sweetly. “They’re for your suspicious blueprint thief. Figured they deserved breakfast.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
“You’re something else,” he mutters, accepting the basket.
“I try.”
We lock eyes again. This time, there’s no teasing. Just tension.
“Kate,” he says finally, voice low. “You saw something. You knew something was wrong.”
“And you believed me,” I reply.
He nods. “I did.”
We stand like that a moment longer, the air thick with unsaid things.
Then he turns away, and I let him go—this time. Just before he leaves the room, he turns back. "Thanks for the coffee maker. I have to say I enjoy it. I suppose I should take you to dinner to thank you for that and last night."
My heart skips like it’s waiting for the catch.
"You mean when I saved your life?" I call to his retreating figure.
Sebastian hesitates like he might say something more—then doesn’t.
He snorts and waves me off without ever looking back. "I'll call you."
Later that evening, I pace my small living room with a fresh mug of coffee I’ve already forgotten to drink. I should be working on my manuscript, riding the momentum of inspiration that surged yesterday, but instead, I’m distracted by shadows that feel too heavy and a silence that feels like it’s listening.
Across the narrow lawn, I see the glow of Sebastian’s windows—soft and golden, like a lighthouse in the mist. I imagine him inside, maybe sitting at that long worktable with his head bowed over fresh blueprints or pacing restlessly the way he did when he thought I wasn’t looking. His voice, low and quiet, still wraps around my name like it belongs there.
My fingers twitch with the urge to text or maybe even call him again, remind him of his dinner invitation or to say something that might crack through the walls he keeps building. But instead, I just watch those glowing rectangles and wonder what he’s feeling. What he’s thinking. If he’s thinking about me too.
They cut through the night like warm promises. I imagine him in there—pacing restlessly, shoulders tense, one hand raking through his dark hair the way he does when something’s gnawing at him. Maybe he’s scowling at where the stolen blueprints used to be, jaw set, that deep frown carved between his brows like stone.
I can almost hear the low murmur of his voice, rough with fatigue, muttering to himself or snapping quietly at whoever dares interrupt him. My stomach flips, a flutter of something low and traitorous, and I have to grip my mug tighter to stop myself from marching across the lawn.
I set the mug down before I shatter it. This ache isn’t new—it’s just sharper now. Part of me wonders what his voice would sound like if I knocked on the door right now—gruff and clipped, or quiet and tired. Would he open the door fast, like he was expecting me, or hesitate like he didn’t trust himself not to pull me in?
The way my stomach flips at the thought makes me grip the mug tighter, its warmth no match for the chill sneaking under my skin. I know he’s home. I know he’s thinking too, brooding inthat way he does, probably dissecting the theft in his head. Part of me wants to march over and demand answers.
Instead, I text him.
Me: Anything new?
He doesn’t reply. Not for twenty minutes. Then finally:
Sebastian: I’m handling it.
My fingers hover over the screen, hesitating. I chew my bottom lip, nerves pinging like static. It’s been a while since I let myself lean on anyone—since the night Roger packed my bags and offered me ten days in a hotel suite like that made up for everything. Back then, I didn’t call Emma because the humiliation kept me frozen, unable to admit how badly things had spiraled, too raw. But now, with tension crawling up my spine and questions swirling, I need a tether. I need my friend.
I stare at my phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. My stomach knots with the familiar cocktail of anxiety and need. I hate asking for help. Hate admitting I’m rattled. But tonight? Tonight’s different. There’s a weight pressing down on my chest, and I need someone who knows me—really knows me. I swipe to my contacts and tap Emma’s name before I can second-guess myself.
It rings once. Twice. The second it connects and her voice fills my ear, I almost cry.
