Page 24 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
"Did I forget something?" he asks, his voice smooth but distant, like he's trying too hard to stay detached.
“Yeah,” I snap, chin high. “Whatever scrap of decency you had must’ve gotten lost between my sheets and your exit strategy.”
He opens the door wider, silently inviting me in. I hesitate—only for a second—then shove past him with a tilt of my chin and all the righteous fury I can muster. If he’s going to act like nothing happened, I’ll be damned if I make this easy for him.
The tension between us could crack drywall—dense and charged, like a storm front waiting to break. My pulse drums in my ears as I stand my ground, defiance sparking where fear once lived. Every nerve in my body feels drawn taut, as if one wrong word could send the whole thing splintering apart. I square my shoulders and hold up the notebook, which holds my notes and thoughts about the novel, waggling it in his face to taunt him.
My heart jackhammers behind my ribs, but I refuse to show it. If he gets to ghost me, I get to haunt him right back. "I wrote you into a scene," I say.
He arches a brow. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"That depends. Do you want to know if you redeem yourself, or keep pretending none of this matters?"
His jaw ticks. "I don’t do drama, Kate."
“No,” I say. “You don’t just have sex with women and disappear like a moody magician.”
He flinches—just a fraction—but enough to crack the mask he wears so carefully. That brief flicker of emotion—surprise, guilt, maybe even longing—flares and vanishes, but I see it. I see him. And I press forward, heart pounding, unwilling to let him hide behind silence again.
"Look, I’m not asking for a ring or a mixtape. But I am asking for basic human decency. If you regret what happened?—"
"I don’t."
"Then why the hell did you vanish like a ghost with commitment issues?"
His shoulders go rigid, jaw clenched tight as he shifts his weight, one hand dragging through his hair while the other drops to his side, flexing like he’s barely holding himself together. "Because I needed to think. Because things are happening that don’t make sense. Because you being here is dangerous."
"Oh good," I snap. "Blame the woman. Very original."
"That’s not what I..." He cuts off with a growl. "You complicate everything."
"Well, maybe that’s what makes it real."
"I don't like complicated."
"Liar."
For a long beat, we just stare at each other.
Then he steps forward and cups my cheek, his calloused palm warm against my skin. His thumb brushes just beneath my eye, a touch so gentle it makes my breath catch. The air betweenus charges, humming with tension. His voice comes rough, low, almost reverent. "You scare the hell out of me, Kate."
The words land like a confession—one I’ve been begging for, without realizing it.
"Good. You scare the hell out of me too."
His mouth crashes down on mine, urgent and consuming, but this time, it isn’t just lust—it’s every unsaid word, every denied emotion, every glance that lasted a beat too long. His kiss is hot and rough, lips demanding, tongue sweeping in with the kind of ferocity that makes my knees buckle.
I grab fistfuls of his shirt, dragging him closer as heat floods my veins. I taste every apology he never said, feel every word he left buried in the heat of his mouth. My spine arches, surrendering to something too raw to name. His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, while the other wraps around my waist, anchoring me to him like he’s terrified I’ll disappear. We kiss like we’re coming apart at the seams, like the truth is hidden somewhere in the press of mouths and the clash of breath—and if we don’t find it now, we’ll lose everything.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, breath ragged. "Marc found something," he says, voice low and taut. His fingers flex at my waist again, like he's anchoring himself to the moment. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—caution, maybe guilt. I feel it coil in my gut, a visceral warning that whatever he's about to say, it isn't going to be simple.
"Who's Marc?"
"My brother. He works for a security and intelligence firm in Chicago. I called him after the break in."
I freeze. "What did he find?"
"Marc flagged something off with the land titles—there’s a second set of ownership records that don’t line up with what’s onfile at the county office. Either someone forged documentation or used shell buyers. It’s too deliberate to be a clerical error."
