Page 11 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
"I told you, I’m just using him... Probably. Maybe. Shut up." I nudge her shoulder. "I’m using him as a muse, not auditioning for heartbreak part two."
"Just be careful, Katie. You're softer than you act."
Her words hit home. I don’t reply right away. Instead, we watch a flock of gulls wheel above the water.
Eventually, I say, "I just need to get the words back. Everything else is noise."
Emma links her arm through mine. "Then let’s clear the noise, one walk at a time."
I bump her hip playfully. "God, you’re still disgustingly well-adjusted, aren’t you? Still journaling your goals and meal prepping like some self-help influencer."
She grins. "And you’re still allergic to adulting unless it comes in the form of fictional angst and lemon-scented candles."
"Excuse you," I sniff. "I am now the proud owner of three types of muffin liners. That is growth."
Emma bursts out laughing. "You’re insufferable. Did you bring a vision board, too?"
"No, but I brought plenty of emotional baggage and an ex I intend to write into villainy."
She wipes a tear of laughter from her eye. "There she is. My chaos gremlin."
"Your chaos gremlin is about to infiltrate small-town infrastructure with muffins and spite."
We both dissolve into laughter, drawing stares from a passing jogger and a tiny terrier who seems deeply offended by our joy. It feels good. It feels like home. And when we part ways an hour later, I’m lighter. Not fixed, not fully healed—but pointed in the right direction.
I leave Emma cackling all the way down the boardwalk, and I return to my cottage with sand between my toes and something dangerously close to hope blooming in my chest.
I bake like a woman possessed. My cottage kitchen transforms into a chaotic mess of flour smudges, sticky countertops, and a pile of mismatched measuring cups. The words aren't coming so I pour the energy into batter and butter instead.
I hum to myself—some out-of-tune pop song I don’t even like—as I dart around the kitchen barefoot. Powdered sugar ends up on my nose, and when a spoon falls into the batter, I mutter, “This is fine,” fishing it out and flicking dough off my wrist. Then I burn one pan of lemon poppyseed muffins because I got distracted imagining Sebastian shirtless and annoyed.
It’s not exactly domestic bliss—but it’s messy, therapeutic, and mine. Blueberry-lavender muffins, double chocolate espresso, and a batch of lemon poppyseed that might be better than therapy.
While the muffins cool, I pull out my laptop and stare at the blinking cursor.
"Come on," I whisper. "Don’t make me beg."
Nothing.
I nibble the corner of a muffin and scroll through old drafts. Still nothing. My eyes drift toward the window, toward the mansion next door, where the sound of power tools and Sebastian’s occasional barked orders drift across the yard.
An idea sparks.
I grab a basket, line it with a clean kitchen towel, and load it up with muffins. I don’t overthink the outfit—soft tee, jeans, bare feet—and march across the grass like the world's most determined baked-goods fairy.
He’s crouched near the front porch steps, poring over a blueprint of some kind, muttering to himself about anchoring bolts and clearly not expecting company outside of his crew who seem to be working diligently. I pause just long enough to admire the way the sun catches in his hair—dark, tousled, andfrustratingly perfect—before calling out, “Afternoon, sunshine! I brought carbs."
He looks up slowly, like he’s calculating how much patience he has left for the day. "Do they explode?"
"Only with flavor," I counter, sauntering closer. "But take care, they might awaken your taste buds—and God forbid, your inner romantic."
"That sounds like a threat," he deadpans.
"Only if you're emotionally fragile," I shoot back. "And judging by your muffin side-eye, I’d say you’re teetering."
His brows lift slightly. "You always this confident in your baked goods?"
"Only when they’re part of a larger literary scheme."
