Page 6 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
And it’s worse at night—when I hear her laugh drifting across the yard, soft and golden and real. When I spot her dancing barefoot on her porch to music only she can hear. It’s the kind of thing that shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t affect me. But it does.
Which is a problem. Because I don’t do distractions. And Kate Lawrence is a walking, talking, curve-hugging distraction with dimples and a firecracker mouth.
I try to shake her loose the rest of the day. I bury myself in the railing revisions, then attempt to recalibrate the lighting grid in the main hall, but every measurement blurs with the memory of her smile. I knock over my thermos because I’m too busy picturing the way her cardigan slipped off one shoulder, revealing a dusting of freckles I now can't unsee.
I even manage to misplace my level, which I later find in the bathroom sink—where I’m fairly sure I didn’t take it. Every time I start to regain focus, I hear her laugh drift across the yard or catch the scent of something sweet baking. It’s like she’s carved out a space in my damn brain and set up shop. I rub my temple, like I can force her out with pressure alone.. And no matter how much I try to refocus, it doesn’t matter. I fail, and I don't tolerate failure.
Evening settles over the estate like a hush falling over a battlefield that hasn't yet realized the war is over. I should be reviewing measurements and finalizing the revised railing specs after the ironwork fiasco. Instead, I’m standing on the porch, nursing a beer and watching the flicker of warm light spill out from the cottage windows. Every now and then, I hear her laugh—light, musical, completely unfiltered.
She’s on the phone. Probably talking to a friend. Or maybe her editor. Or a secret book club that ranks brooding men by scowl intensity. Hell, for all I know, she’s plotting the next scene of her novel and using me as character inspiration—'The surly neighbor who scowls by moonlight.' Maybe family. Maybe some poor bastard who doesn’t realize he’s been replaced by a woman with better dialogue and plot twists.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I catch myself in the glass.
Jesus. Get it together, Cabot.
I step back onto the porch.
Kate’s on her own porch now, wrapped in a cardigan, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows like she’s already elbow-deep in her next masterpiece. Her hair’s a soft, tangled halo around her face, and her bare feet pace slowly across the wood planks like she’s trying to untangle thoughts too big for her curvy frame. There’s a warmth glowing from inside her cottage—soft lamplight, maybe candlelight—and it paints her in honey gold and shadow.
She looks content. At ease. Like someone who belongs exactly where she is. I envy that. That kind of peace used to feel impossible.
The image hits me harder than it should—so different from the chaos I used to come home to in Chicago. With Heidi, everything felt like tension strung too tight, waiting to snap. Even the quiet moments were loaded, bracing for the next blowup. But this feels like stillness without warning. Like peace that doesn’t demand a price. It throws me off balance in a way I don’t like admitting.
And I feel... unsettled. Not in the usual way—where restlessness keeps me working late or pacing the house like a caged animal. This is something else. Heavier. A pull behind the ribs that has nothing to do with her looks and everything to dowith the way she makes silence feel like something I want to share instead of escape.
She glances up and spots me. Smiles. Waves.
My chest tightens. I nod back. But my hand is slow, and my pulse is faster than it should be.
"Evening, neighbor," she calls out.
"Working."
She grins. "Liar. You’re standing there like a man in a Hallmark movie who’s one golden retriever away from emotional growth."
I bark a laugh before I can stop it. "You’re exhausting."
"I’m delightful. You just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to appreciate it yet."
I raise my beer in silent salute.
"Want one?" she asks, tilting her head, voice honey-sweet and coaxing.
I glance at the wineglass in her hand, then at the plate she’s balancing on the railing like a challenge. "What’s the catch? You trying to poison me?"
She pretends to look shocked. "Catch? Please. This is a neighborly offering. I’m being welcoming."
"You’re being manipulative."
"I’m being charming," she corrects. "It’s not my fault you’ve forgotten how to interact with other humans who aren’t made of concrete and permits."
I raise an eyebrow. "You think I need social rehab?"
"I think you need a cookie, a full glass of wine, and a twenty-minute break from glowering at blueprints like they personally insulted your mother."
My lips twitch. "You’re relentless."
She lifts her glass in salute. "And you’re a grumpy recluse with great abs and an emotionally unavailable aura. We all have our burdens."
