Page 21 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
"I know they did."
"Then let me help."
I blink. "Help? How?"
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a notebook. Not the sleek leather-bound kind. This one’s battered, spiral-edged, covered in doodles. She flips it open.
"I make notes when I’m working. Scenes, characters, overheard dialogue..."
"You wrote about me."
She looks up, grinning. Her grin is pure mischief—bright, open, fearless. Like she’s daring me to call her bluff. "Guilty."
I reach for the notebook and she snatches it back.
"Not until you say it."
"Say what?"
"That I was right."
I step closer. Her breath catches. The tension thickens between us like molasses, warm and heavy.
"You were right, Kate. About the break-in. About someone watching. And maybe about me."
Her eyes flick to my mouth. "Which part of you do you think I wrote about?"
I take the notebook from her unresisting hand and flip through it.
"Grumpy hero," she offers.
"Check," I say, watching the flush rise in her cheeks.
"Scowls like it’s a paid profession—complete with overtime and hazard pay." she adds, daring me to argue.
"Accurate," I admit, inching closer.
I continue to read from her notebook."He kisses her like he’s ticking a box, like this moment means nothing—but she knows better. She sees it in the tremor of hisbreath, the way his fingers linger a second too long, like he’s trying not to feel what’s already there."
My head snaps up. "I haven’t kissed you."
"Not yet."
But I’m done pretending I don’t want to. That I haven’t been thinking about it since the first time she laughed in my kitchen. The room contracts around us. My breath shortens. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip and that’s it. I’m gone.
One breath. Two. I crack. There’s no line left to toe. I close the distance and grab hold of her, yanking her flush against me like I've been starving and she's the only thing that can satisfy the ache. Our mouths collide in a kiss that’s hot, wild, and gloriously unrestrained—like we’re both trying to reclaim something we didn’t realize we’d lost.
She tastes like citrus and heat, like sin and second chances, and the noise she makes—half gasp, half moan—drives a pulse of heat straight through me. Her fingers dig into my shoulders as I back her into the nearest surface, and every inch of her pressed to me makes it harder to breathe. This isn’t careful or controlled—it’s a detonation. And I want to burn in the aftermath.
She moans against my mouth, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go. Her body is warm and trembling beneath my hands, her breath hitching as I press her back toward the desk. I sweep aside a stack of papers with a growl, the sharp rustle of pages lost in the heat between us, and guide her into the space where I want her most—close, open, mine.
"Tell me this isn’t just for research," I murmur against her throat.
"God, no. It’s not. It’s you. It’s always been you."
She hesitates, breathless and flushed, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "I’ve been on the pill for years," she whispers. "And I get tested regularly."
My grip tightens at her hips. "Same. I’m clean. Always careful."
