Page 15 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
For a moment, I forget every reason I keep people—especially women—at arm’s length.
I almost give in to the urge to reach for her, drag her into my arms, and kiss her until neither of us can remember why it's a bad idea. Almost.
But at the last second, I step back. My hand hovers for half a breath, fingers twitching like they’re caught between instinct and restraint. I could close the gap in one step. She wouldn’t stop me. And that’s the part that terrifies me most—I want her to want it too. My throat tightens, and there’s a pull in my chest that aches, sharp and immediate. I don’t move closer—I retreat. Emotional cowardice disguised as control.
Her smile falters.
“I should get back to work,” I say.
She nods slowly. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the... solitude.”
She leaves the bag on the counter. No parting shot. No forced grin.
Just silence. Not cold. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Which might be worse.
I watch the door long after it clicks shut, the quiet it leaves behind louder than her laughter. My jaw tightens until a muscle ticks in protest. I tell myself I should be relieved—relieved she’s gone, that she didn’t push harder, that I didn’t cave. But I’m not.
My thoughts are a mess—her scent clinging to the air, that unapologetic grin, the heat that crackled in the space between us when we stood too close. I blow out a sharp breath through my nose and grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white. The silence doesn’t calm me. It needles. It claws.
And when she walks away, it feels like the whole damn room goes colder with her absence
Later, I’m a disaster when working with the crew. I squint at a blueprint I drew up myself just last week and can't make sense of my own notes, transposing the measurements like some sleep-deprived rookie.
When one of the electricians casually asks about conduit placement, I snap at him with a sharpness that earns a muttered curse and a wide berth for the rest of the day. Then I nearly sign off on a stone delivery before realizing the pallets are stacked with the wrong color—again. I double-check the order, cursing under my breath when I see it was my mistake. Twice.
The hammering sounds offbeat now. Off-kilter. Like even the rhythm of construction knows I’ve started to lose it. I pace the driveway, jaw tight, the sun baking into the back of my neck as I watch the crew shuffle around me like they’re trying not to draw attention to the boss losing his edge. I can feel the glances. The wary sidelong looks. The questions they're too smart to ask out loud. But I know what the hell’s wrong.
I’m thinking about her.
Kate Lawrence, with her muffins and her mouth and the way she somehow managed to slip under my skin without permission. I bark an order at one of the framers and instantly regret the tone, watching his brows draw together in frustration. I go over the same section of railing twice, correcting a measurement I know is already perfect. My hands itch to build, to fix, to do something useful—but everything feels slightly out of phase.
All because I almost kissed her. God help me, I still want to.
The following morning, after a long and sleepless night, the doorbell rings. I stalk to the front and almost rip the door off its hinges to snarl at her. Only it isn't her. It's a nice young girl—probably in college—in an Amazon uniform with a box.
"I didn't order anything," I say, trying not to snarl.
"Are you Sebastian Cabot?" I nod. "Well that's who it’s addressed to."
She pushes it into my hand, turns and runs back to her truck before I can apologize. I take the box inside, set it down on the temporary plywood kitchen counter and open it. A box of assorted Starbuck's coffee in k-cups, a fancy pod coffeemaker and a gift tag which reads,Welcome to the 21st Century! Kate.
I lift my eyes to the heavens and groan. Of course she’d send reinforcements. First muffins. Then metaphor. Now tech. Kate Lawrence doesn’t just flirt—she invades.
CHAPTER 5
KATE
The wind howls louder tonight. Not the kind of breezy lullaby that whispers through a seaside town like Pelican Point—but something more ominous. Like it’s carrying a warning.
I’m up later than usual, fiddling with my manuscript, the words finally flowing again thanks to a certain grumpy architect who pretends he doesn’t notice when I flirt but still finds reasons to stare at my mouth. After everything with the muffins, the scones, and that almost-kiss, I’m floating in a weird place between energized and off-kilter.
He didn’t kiss me. And I’ve been trying to convince myself that’s fine for the last four hours. Not like I wanted him to. Or... okay, maybe I did. Just a little. Enough that when he leaned in, my pulse jumped like it had something to prove, heat crawling up my neck, breath catching in my throat. My stomach flipped as if I’d just crested the top of a roller coaster. For a split second, I wondered if he could hear the wild hammering of my heart—or if I imagined the flicker of heat in his eyes. Was it real? Or just another cruel trick of loneliness dressed up as attraction? Maybe it was both. Maybe I’m so starved for connection I’d mistakeheat for hope. The moment was so intense that I momentarily forgot how to breathe.
I can still feel the ghost of that moment—his breath brushing mine, the heat of him so close. The silence that followed was louder than any rejection. Did I really want him to kiss me because of attraction... or was it just the sheer relief of someone seeing me again, truly seeing me, after all that time of emotional neglect and Roger's clinical coldness? At the time I hadn't recognized it for what it was, but now I do. My skin prickles with the thought.
Maybe it’s not just about inspiration or plot anymore. Maybe it’s about needing to feel something real—just for a moment. But I push that thought away. This is about the story. The work. My book.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself—because anything else means acknowledging the strange, magnetic pull he has over me. And I’m not ready for that.
