Page 27 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
"Targeted?"
"Unclear. But Kate might be caught in it."
A beat of silence. Then, "I’ll send someone. You want local PD?"
"No. This stays quiet," says Ryan. “We don’t need whispers turning into rumors. Not yet. Not until we know who’s playing this game—and why Kate keeps ending up in the middle of it.”
"Understood," says Marc. "Bro, you still want the background?"
Ryan quirks his eyebrow.
I hesitate. "Yes, but more for associates, and Marc—tread lightly."
"Got it. You okay, Seb?"
"I’m not sure." I end the call.
I glance across the lawn to see Kate headed back toward the cottage. Her stride is brisk, shoulders squared, like she’s trying not to let me see the hurt written across her face. The curtain in the front window twitches, and something in me twists hard and sharp.
I want her. Not just for a night. Not just for distraction. I want her in every messy, complicated, real way that counts. And damn it, I’m done pretending otherwise.
I’m going to be the man who gets the girl. Who saves the day. Who doesn’t walk away this time.
Even if it kills me. Loving her feels like standing barefoot on the edge of a blade—but I’d rather bleed for her than walk away again.
Ryan chuckles. "You are so fucked."
That afternoon, I find Kate in the cottage garden.
She’s kneeling beside a raised bed, trowel in one hand, fingers brushing through the soil like she’s trying to find her footing in something steady. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, cheeks flushed with effort, and there’s a smear of dirt on her cheekbone like war paint.
She looks beautiful—sunlight catching the golden strands in her hair, cheeks flushed with effort, a smudge of dirt on her face like some stubborn badge of honor.
And she looks pissed—eyes sharp and narrowed, mouth pressed into a line that says she’s got words for me and they won’t be sweet.
Her back is to me, but she knows I’m here. "You dodging me, Mr. Grumpy Hero?" she asks without looking up.
I exhale slowly. "Yeah."
Her head snaps up at my honesty. "Excuse me?"
I step into the garden, letting the gate swing shut behind me. The air is warm and earthy, thick with the smell of fresh compost and tomato vines. Suddenly I’m too aware of how exposed this space is. How close we are.
"I’m not good at this."
"This?"
"You. The night. The desk."
She straightens, wiping her hands on her jeans. "You regret it?"
"No. I regret what it means."
She tilts her head. "And what does it mean, Sebastian?"
I drag a hand through my hair. "It means if something happens to you, I’m the one who’ll have to live with it. And I’ve lost enough already."
She crosses her arms. "You think I don’t know risk? I’m a woman who moved into a small, coastal cottage and flirted with the sexiest, grumpiest man in town. I live for risk. Falling for you might be the riskiest thing I’ve ever done. But I’m still standing."
