Page 17 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
“Good. Lock your door.”
“I... Sebastian, what if...?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he cuts in. Not unkind, just firm. “Stay inside, Kate. Lock your doors. I’ll check it out.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
A breath. A pause like he wants to say more—but then just, “Thank you for calling.”
Click.
I huff. “You’re welcome, Mr. Broody.”
I stare at the phone for a moment longer, pulse racing, the edges of his voice still echoing in my ears—calm but commanding. A strange combination of comfort and frustrationsettles in my chest. Then I lock the door, double-check the windows, and lean my back against the wall, trying to pretend that the night hasn’t shifted somehow.
The next morning, I wake early, anxious to hear what—if anything—came of the strange noises. I throw on leggings and a hoodie, gather up a second batch of muffins (blueberry lemon this time), and head next door.
Sebastian’s already outside, shouting instructions at his crew with a clipped efficiency that makes my stomach tighten. I almost don’t go. Almost turn back three times before my feet override my brain. Seeing him again sends a jolt through me—sharp and immediate, like stepping into a cold tide without warning.
I think back to yesterday and for a second, I’m back on the porch, heart pounding as he leaned in close, his voice rumbling low and unreadable. His nearness had made my skin tighten, my pulse jump, and now, just looking at him dredges all that back up in a rush. Why does he still have this effect on me? And what does that say about how little I must’ve felt for Roger, if one almost-kiss from a grumpy stranger can scramble me this completely?
I hover in the doorway, caught between anticipation and something darker. My breath hitches—sharp and uninvited—as my gaze traces the sweat-slick fabric of his shirt stretched across lean, cut muscle. The cotton clings to every ridge, damp and tempting, and that scowl carved between his brows? It could gut a lesser man.
For a moment, I just watch—body pulsing with want, throat dry—staggered by how fast the heat rises, how easily he slipsbeneath my skin even after the friction between us. Even after the silence.
I drag in a breath, shove the reaction down hard, and step forward with the muffins clutched like a shield. Pretend it’s just another morning. Perfectly normal. Totally manageable.
Even as every nerve hums with the knowledge that if he turned around right now, looked at me like he had before—there’d be nothing ordinary about it.
I clear my throat.
He turns. Stops.
Tension ripples through him like he’s trying to rein it back in.
“Did you check the side entrance?” I ask, holding up the muffin basket like a peace offering—and also because baked goods are apparently my new coping mechanism.
“Someone forced the lock,” he says. “Could’ve been kids. Or an idiot looking for scrap.”
“But they didn’t take anything?”
He shakes his head, then adds, almost reluctantly, “They took my blueprints.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods. “The master set. The one with my layout annotations.”
I grip the basket tighter. Not for warmth—just for something to hold onto. “That doesn’t sound like a random theft, Sebastian.”
“I know.” His tone is tight, jaw rigid. “Which is why I’m not brushing it off.”
I step closer. “So what now?”
“I tighten security. Add cameras. And figure out who the hell wants my plans bad enough to break in.”
