Page 3 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
That, at least, gets me a look. Just a glance over his shoulder, cool and unimpressed, but a look nonetheless.
“Well, points for restraint,” I mutter. “Most men at least fake a smile when confronted with fresh lingerie and a cheerful, curvy neighbor.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just finishes screwing the heavy iron bracket into the porch railing of the estate, the grind of the drill whining through the humid morning air. His back flexes with the effort, slick with a sheen of sweat that catches the light like polished bronze, like he’s auditioning for a cover shoot.
“Does it come with subtitles?” I mutter, stepping around a coil of extension cord.
Still nothing.
I set the box down with a thud and straighten up, planting my hands on my hips. “You know, there’s a whole species of human that communicates with things like words. Sentences. Grunts, even.”
That earns me another glance. Barely. Just a flick of those blue eyes, narrowed against the morning sun.
“You’re the writer,” he says, like it’s an accusation.
I blink at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Guilty. But don’t worry, I only use my powers for good—or rather steamy, well-structured fiction.”
His brow lifts a fraction. “Is that supposed to impress me?”
I grin. “Only if you’re the type who appreciates emotional depth, character development, climactic tension, and multiple happy endings.”
He mutters something I can’t quite catch, but I catch the flick of his mouth. Not a smile. More like the ghost of one.
“Let me guess,” I say, hands on hips, “you’re Cabotor, Architect of Doom. All lines and load-bearing cynicism.”
He snorts—barely—but it’s there. “Wow. That’s either very literal or very loaded. I respect the ambiguity. At least I build things that stand up.”
I arch a brow. “Touché.”
He gives me a long look, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m a real person or just another complication in his already over-complicated day. “You talk a lot for someone carrying lingerie in broad daylight.”
I smile sweetly. “I do. I'll bet that's a real buzz kill for you.”
I don’t shrink from the jab. I double down. That’s what you do with men like him—you hold your ground.
There’s a long pause. He wipes his hands on a rag, finally turns to face me fully. God help me, he’s even more gorgeous up close. Rough stubble, square jaw, dark brows drawn low like he’s perpetually irritated.
“I’m Sebastian Cabot. Architect.”
Of course he is, but I already knew that.
“I’m Kate Lawrence," I say offering him my hand. "Romance novelist. You know, the kind who thinks happy endings aren’t just a marketing gimmick.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—God forbid—but something resembling movement.
“Let me guess,” I continue, picking up my lingerie box again, my blood heating with a mix of irritation and disbelief. He’s handsome, sure—but he’s also clearly one of those cynics who think optimism is a mental illness. “You think romance novels are shallow, formulaic, and single-handedly responsible for dumbing down literature.”
“I think they sell false hope,” he replies flatly.
I gasp, hand to heart, like he just kicked a kitten. “False hope? Oh no.” My smile wobbles for half a second—because I’ve read those stories too. Needed them. “Next thing you’ll tell me is Santa isn’t real, the Easter Bunny doesn't lay chocolate eggs, and Mr. Darcy ghosted Elizabeth.”
He gives me a sideways glance, unimpressed.
“Seriously,” I press, “did a romance novel hurt you once? Steal your lunch money? Leave you at the altar?”
He lets out a dry snort, the closest thing I’ve heard to a laugh all morning. “My ex-wife used to read that stuff religiously. She’d finish a book, look up at me and ask why I couldn’t be more like the heroes.”
“Oh,” I say, cocking my head. “So she wanted you to brood in ballrooms and rip off corsets with your teeth? Or maybe change into some kind of animal?”
