Page 2 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
“Still sound like a master chief,” comes the voice on the other end. Ryan Murphy. Former CO back when we both thought we’d die in tactical gear. Now, apparently, a successful entrepreneur, mogul and billionaire with a wife who buys historic properties for breakfast.
“Murphy,” I say, leaning back in the office chair that still smells like stale coffee and broken promises. “What do you want?”
“To offer you an exit ramp.”
That gets my attention.
“I need someone I trust to head up the architecture division down here. It’s boutique work—historic renovations, smart design, none of the corporate crap you’re choking on in that glass box of yours. Candace is turning an old coastal estate in Pelican Point into something special. We want you on it.”
“Florida?” I scoff. “You know I don’t do sunshine and sandals.”
“You do now.”
He sends the specs that night. I look. I curse. I try not to care. Then I hand in my resignation Monday morning and buy a pair of sunglasses. The sunglasses still feel like a costume. But the freedom? That part fits.
Three months later, I’m standing in the bones of a nineteenth-century estate ten feet from the Gulf, sketching plans for what will become a high-end lifestyle retreat on the eastern seaboard.
And for the first time in years, I’m building something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m dying inside.
There’s peace in this place. And the kind of quiet that lets a man finally hear himself think.
Or there was—until a woman with a honey-sweet laugh and too many books moved into the caretaker's cottage.
I don’t know her name yet. But she’s already a distraction. And distractions have a way of becoming dangerous. If I’m not careful, she’ll become the kind of distraction that gets a man burned.
CHAPTER 1
KATE
The grumpy Greek statue is shirtless this morning. The sunlight hits him like a spotlight, gilding every inch of bronze and muscle like a sculptor's fever dream. Maybe I should suggest to the planning commission that all grumpy, gorgeous architects should be forced to be shirtless at all times. Yeah, that's not a bad idea.
Sebastian Cabot—yeah, I know his name. I’m a novelist. Background checks are my love language. Him being shirtless shouldn’t be a problem—hell, it would usually be a blessing—except that I’m currently holding a box of my underwear, and the sight of him has my whole body zinging, heat pooling low and dizzy sparks dancing behind my eyes. My pulse spikes like I just opened the door to a fireman calendar shoot. My breath catches, and there's a hot, inexplicable swoop low in my belly that has no business existing this early in the day.
I nearly trip over my own flip-flop trying to get a better look—purely for observational accuracy, obviously. One foot catches the edge of the porch step, and I do a wild, flailing windmill move with my free arm to keep from face-planting onto the welcome mat. The box of underwear wobbles in my grip, threatening to burst open like an overstuffed jack-in-the-box oflace and regret just waiting to detonate. I somehow manage to recover, though not before letting out a sound that’s somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.
That, of course, attracts the attention of Sebastian who scowls and does nothing to help me. Not exactly the stuff a 'meet cute' is made of, but it doesn't take away from the fact that he looks like sin and salvation sculpted into one impossible man.
The man's body is... unfair. Golden skin slick with a sheen of sweat, hard-cut muscles flexing with every movement, and those sharp, angular lines that practically dare a woman to fantasize about running her hands over them. He doesn’t even notice the disaster he nearly caused. Which, honestly, just makes it worse.
And here's the part that really messes with my head: I just got dumped. Not even a week ago, Roger—my fiancé of two years—called it quits with all the emotion of someone canceling a dry cleaning pickup. And yet, here I am, ogling a stranger like I’ve never seen a half-naked man before. Although to be fair, I may have seen them, but they didn't look like that. It's all I can do to keep my mouth from watering.
What does that say about me? About us? About the love I thought I had?
Did I even really love Roger at all, or just the blueprint of a life that looked good on paper but felt empty in my chest? The safe, respectable path paved with shared calendars and lukewarm takeout and sex that could double as light cardio?
Because nothing about my reaction to Sebastian Cabot feels safe. It's visceral. Embarrassing. Real.
And I’m not sure whether to lean into it… or run like hell.
“Morning,” I say, because I am polite. Raised well. Southern manners and all that.
Nothing. Not even a grunt.
“Lovely day to scowl at the sea,” I offer in my most cheerful voice.
Still nothing. I've seen sloths at the zoo less taciturn than Sebastian Cabot.
He’s either immune to charm or committed to the role of silent antagonist. I arch an eyebrow and add, “Should I be worried you’re some kind of artisanal serial killer? The silent type with very specific porch bracket preferences?”
