Page 8 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
I study her for a long moment. I smile. That obsessive, get it done at all costs trait is something we share. I tip my glass to her. "His loss."
That earns me a quiet smile, one that tugs at something deep in my chest.
"Your turn again," I say, needing a pivot.
She grins. "Fine. I used to believe I had to make everyone happy to be worth something. Now I just want to make myself proud."
I raise my glass to that. "Cheers to letting go of the bullshit."
We clink glasses—both stemless and filled with Sauvignon Blanc, the soft chime sounding more intimate than it should in the quiet night. Her gaze meets mine over the rim, steady and open, and a sharp, unexpected pressure knots behind my sternum.
The porch lights flicker faintly above us, casting a golden glow that dances across her skin. For a second, everything else fades—just the sound of her quiet breathing, the faint scent of citrus from her hair, and the warmth of the wine in my throat. I don’t look away. Neither does she.
There’s a beat of silence. Warm. Comfortable. Unsettling.
She’s everything I didn’t know I missed. “You’re not what I expected,” I say.
"Is that good or bad?"
"Both."
She grins. "Perfect."
The way she says it makes something inside me shift. I’m not sure what to do with the feeling. So I finish my wine and excuse myself before I do something reckless—like stay a little longer and fall more deeply under her spell.
I leave, but don’t go inside right away. Instead, I stand where I can observe her, but can't be seen. I pull out my phone and hit call.
My brother Marc answers on the second ring. "Please tell me this is a butt dial. You don’t call unless something’s on fire."
"My frontal cortex might be," I mutter, leaning against the porch column.
His voice sharpens with interest. "What happened?"
"I just had wine and cookies on a porch swing with a romance novelist."
There’s a pause, then, "Holy shit. Are you okay? Tap the pound button twice if you’re being held hostage by a meet-cute."
"I’m serious."
"So am I. Did she make you read a poem? Wear a sweater with buttons?" he teases.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Younger brothers can be annoying. "Knock it off. She’s... different, complicated."
Marc hums. "Complicated good or complicated ‘you’re already planning your escape route’?"
I exhale slowly. "She talks a lot. Makes me laugh. Annoys the hell out of me. And she bakes."
Marc laughs outright now. "Oh, you’re toast."
"I haven’t felt like this in a long time."
The line goes quiet for a beat. Then softer, "Like Heidi?"
"No. Nothing like Heidi." I glance back at her window, the warm glow still seeping through the curtains. "This is louder. Brighter. It feels like it might actually be real."
"Shit." Marc exhales. "Do you want backup or should I just send a really good bottle of single malt?"
"Both. Neither. Shit."
