Page 9 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
"I’ll overnight the scotch. And Sebastian?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to screw it up. Not everything needs blueprints. Some things you just have to build as you go."
The words stick with me long after I end the call. I stare out across the dark yard, the phone still warm in my hand, Marc’s voice echoing in the quiet. He meant it as a joke. A light jab. But it lands in the same place Kate’s smile does—right in the hollow part of my chest that I pretend isn’t there. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this doesn’t need to be planned to death. Maybe, for once, I let it unfold.
Kate Lawrence is chaos wrapped in sunlight, and for once, I’m ready to build without a plan. I’m starting to think stepping into the fire might be the smartest bad idea I’ve had in years.
CHAPTER 3
KATE
It’s official: Sebastian Cabot is the hottest buzzkill I’ve ever met.
And I say that with admiration. Really. It takes talent to scowl that convincingly in the presence of fresh cookies and decent wine. But last night? That porch chat? He’d actually sat still. Talked. Grinned—not a full smile, mind you, but a definite upward twitch of the lips. His voice had been rougher than usual, quieter, like he wasn’t used to sharing space without barking orders. There had been a moment—just a second—when his fingers had brushed mine passing the wine, and I could’ve sworn the air thickened.
His jaw had flexed when I'd joked about his parade issues, like he was trying not to laugh and failing. And the way he'd looked at me when I'd teased him—direct and guarded, like he hadn’t known whether to retreat or lean in—had made my toes curl in ways that had nothing to do with the wine. He’d seen me. Not the author persona or the woman still nursing a bruised ego from being dumped via Four Seasons suite reservation—but me.
Now? He’s in my head. Big time.
Yeah. My heart might’ve done a slow, stupid roll. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but I'm a romance novelist. Stuff like this is my stock in trade.
But I’m not here for romance. Or at least, I wasn’t. I came to Pelican Point to jumpstart my creativity, to get past the post-tour burnout and the Roger debacle and rediscover why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place. Not to ogle a grumpy, brooding, six-foot-and-then-some walking contradiction.
So maybe I need to be the one to lean into it.
My pulse jumps just thinking about it, like some reckless part of me already made the decision while the rest of me was still catching up. I press a hand to my chest, laugh softly, and whisper, "What’s the worst that could happen?"
The best way to get my writing back on track? Admit it—Sebastian Cabot is muse material. Tragic past? Check. Emotional baggage? Double check. Unfairly perfect bone structure and growly voice? Oh, he’s practically a one-man trope parade.
And if he doesn’t believe in love stories... Well, that’s just fuel for the fire.
I pop into town early, the salty breeze tangling through my curls as I wander down Pelican Point’s main street. Every storefront looks like it belongs on a vintage postcard—weathered wood, hand-painted signs, a flower box or two bursting with color.
Inside the little general store, I find myself locked in a stare-down with an older woman over the last tin of French vanilla paste. We reach for it at the same time and both have our hands on it.
She's got silver hair pinned up with a pencil and eyes that could cut glass. Her name tag says BIRDIE in all caps, like a warning label. She sizes me up—city-girl sundress, wedgesandals, oversized sunglasses—and raises one very skeptical eyebrow.
"You baking or just hoarding?" she asks, voice flat as old linoleum.
Oh great. Local spice snob showdown. Game on.
I clutch the tin protectively. "Baking. Weaponized muffins, actually. For a neighbor who scowls for sport."
Birdie snorts. "Cabot?"
"That obvious?"
"Like mildew on shower grout."
I grin. "Tell you what. You let me have the French vanilla paste, and I'll bring you one of the muffins and name a side character in my next novel after you."
She pauses, considering, then grumbles, "She'd better be sassier and smarter than everyone else."
I refrain from fist pumping. Score one for Team Author. Instead, I say, "Done."
She relinquishes the tin with a mock-sigh and waves me off. By the time I’m loading my bag with three types of muffin liners and a notebook that says 'WRITE LIKE A BADASS,' she calls after me with a string of dry, colorful warnings:
