Page 7 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
I hesitate. I tell myself it’s a bad idea. That crossing that invisible line between us would be the beginning of something I’m not ready for.
But then she adds, "Besides, I have questions. Like how someone can have biceps like that and still frown so much."
This is a bad idea, I know it is, but I’m already moving before my brain can catch up and stop me.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on her porch with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and a plate of what might be the best damn snickerdoodle cookies I’ve ever tasted. I didn't actually realize how much I missed snickerdoodles until the first one literally melted in my mouth.
She props one foot on the railing and eyes me like I’m a challenge she fully intends to win.
"So, Cabot," she says, "tell me something real."
The request hits deeper than I expect. My jaw flexes. I could deflect. Make a joke. But something about the way she asks makes it impossible.
My grip tightens slightly around the stemless wineglass, and for a moment, I stare out at the dark horizon instead of her face. I don’t do real—not anymore. Real means vulnerable. Real means opening doors into spaces where I’ve spent years building walls. She has a determined look on her face that tells me she’s not going to let this slide and won't accept some half-assed answer from me.
I clear my throat, buying half a second more.
I savor the taste of butter, cinnamon and sugar in my mouth, then wash it down with a sip of wine. "I hate parades."
She blinks. "Okay, that’s oddly specific."
"Too much noise. Too many people pretending they’re not miserable."
She tilts her head. "But you’re okay with wine and cookies with your sarcastic neighbor?"
I glance at her. "I haven’t bolted yet."
She beams. "That’s practically a love letter coming from you."
We sit like that for a while, just sipping and not rushing the silence. It’s warm. Easy.
But then she nudges me gently with her foot. "Okay, your turn. Something deeper. Come on, Cabot, I can tell you’ve got at least one tragic backstory rattling around in that broad, chiseled chest."
I let out a breath. "I used to think if I worked hard enough, stayed disciplined, I could build a life that didn’t break apart. A relationship. A future."
She sobers. "And?"
"It broke anyway, and I’ve been picking up the shards ever since.”
Her voice softens and a small flash of pain crosses her face. "Yeah. Been there."
I look over. "Fiancé?"
She frowns slightly. "How did you know I had a fiancé?"
She hasn’t mentioned it. I nod towards the third finger on her left hand. "Tan line, like something's been removed recently."
"Should I be flattered that you cared enough to check my ring finger out?"
"Not really. Former SEAL, I tend to notice everything."
"I see," she says, but probably doesn't.
That's one of the things that used to bug Heidi about me—I wasn't the romanticized, heroic version of a SEAL she had from the novels she read. I was just a man who had been trained to be a tactical weapon and I was good at it.
Something in my jaw ticks. Maybe it's the way she looks at the bare finger as if she can't decide if it's a good thing or not. The flicker of jealousy that curls in my gut at the thought of someone else with her is unwelcome, but I force it down anyway.
She snorts. "I should have guessed. Roger was more of a... beige life crisis than a deep, dark secret. I think he loved the idea of me—you know successful romance author. But the actual messy, stubborn, writing-at-2AM version? Not so much."
