Page 10 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

We anchor nearby and start logging what we can from the surface. She sketches quickly but with precision, flipping pages and muttering in Spanish when the pencil doesn’t do what she wants. I snap a few photos and try to stay out of her light, but the commentary starts anyway.

“That’s not a carved ledge,” I say, pointing.

She squints. “It’s too uniform to be natural.”

“Wave erosion can fake symmetry.”

She shoots me a look. “And men often confuse guesswork for expertise.”

I laugh, raise both hands. “Okay, Doc. You win.”

She grins—sharp, victorious, just a little smug. It shouldn’t be attractive. And yet, I kind of like it.

About thirty minutes in, the sky changes—fast. The sunlight that was warming our backs turns pale and thin, filtering through a wall of clouds that weren’t there five minutes ago. A gust of wind whips across the cove, carrying the smell of rain and something colder, sharper. Crystal looks up from her sketchbook, her brows knitting together. We both feel it—the pressure drop, the sudden stillness, like the entire ocean's holding its breath.

One minute we’ve got clouds flirting with the sun, lazy and harmless, and the next, the wind kicks up with a sudden snap—like nature changing its mind mid-sentence. The temperature drops. The scent of ozone threads through the air. It’s like a switch has been flipped from postcard-perfect to hold-your-breath, and we both know what’s coming before the first wave hits the hull.

“That’s not a good sign,” I mutter, watching the sky darken like someone pulled a shade across the sun. The air's gone electric—tight with the kind of pressure that hits just before everything breaks loose. I've seen this before. It's never just rain.

Crystal looks up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as her eyes scan the rapidly darkening sky. “Should we head back?” she asks, and there’s a tightness in her voice that wasn’t there five minutes ago—cautious, calculating. She’s not scared, not exactly, but she knows enough to recognize when the ocean stops playing nice.

I glance at the horizon. The clouds are already thickening, bruised and moving fast, the wind chopping the waves into tight, angry crests. Too late to outrun it. The sea’s already shifting beneath us—no mercy, no second chances.

The squall hits fast—classic oceanic stuff. Wind, spray, and the kind of rolling chop that makes it dangerous to navigate through narrow passes. I radio Mike, Denny, and the rest of the crew to stay put. We’ve got enough provisions and gear to wait it out.

“Looks like we’re stuck here for a bit,” I say, keeping my tone easy, like this is just another spontaneous adventure instead of a logistical nightmare. No panic, no stress—just a change of plan. If I’ve learned anything on the water, it’s that control is an illusion and adaptability keeps you alive.

Crystal blinks. “On your boat?”

Her voice is quieter than before, just a fraction slower. Her eyes flick toward the looming waves, then to the narrow space between the deck and the clouded sky. She doesn’t say it outright—she’s too proud for that—but there’s a flicker of unease in the set of her jaw, the tight grip on her sketchpad. She’s not panicking, but she’s not thrilled either. She’s probably used to charts and pages, not riding out the weather with nothing but canvas and salt air.

“Unless you’d rather swim to shore fighting off the bull and lemon sharks and then bunking with the panthers, bears and bobcats,” I offer, keeping my voice light but steady, trying to cut through the tension with something resembling humor. I catch her eyes—wide, assessing—and give her the smallest nod, the kind that says,I've got this. You're safe.

She exhales. “Fine. But I get the dry bunk.”

“Both of the staterooms have dry beds with warm bedding.”

I weigh anchor and steer us to a sheltered spot on the leeward side of the rock, where the waves ease up and the wind loses some of its bite. Re-dropping the anchor, I then secure the deck—battening down the hatches, as they used to say—before heading below. Crystal watches the entire process with a mix of curiosity and what I’m pretty sure is reluctant admiration.

Once I have us as secure as we can be, I break out the emergency cocoa packets and a bottle of Kahlua from the galley. It's not exactly five-star service, but it'll warm us up and take the edge off the nerves.

She arches an eyebrow. “You keep cocoa and Kahlua on board?”

“I keep things civilized,” I say. “Also, Denny has a serious marshmallow addiction.”

By the time the cocoa’s heated and spiked, we’re both warm and dry, sitting on either side of the teak dining table. The tempest outside batters the deck and stowed canvas above us, but here below decks, there's a quiet bubble of heat and shared breath. Her hand brushes mine every now and then; just enough contact to be noticed, not enough to feel deliberate. She smells like ocean wind and cinnamon from the cocoa, and when she laughs—really laughs—it settles something in my chest I didn’t realize had been tight all day.

“Tell me something not in your file,” I say.

She pauses. “I once tried to forge my mom’s signature on a permission slip using a library card and a magnifying glass.”

I blink. “That’s… impressively nerdy.”

“I was eight. And yes, I got caught.”

We laugh. Real, honest, unexpected. It’s the kind of sound that fills in the quiet spaces between us, the kind you don’t fake or force. She tilts her head back just a little, eyes brighter than they’ve been all day, and for a second, the bad weather outside could be a thousand miles away. It’s the first time I’ve seen her drop the shield—and not just lower it, but leave it behind entirely. And damn if it doesn’t make me want to lean in, stay close, and figure out every complicated, brilliant thing about her.

She catches me looking. Her gaze meets mine—sharp, but not defensive. There’s a flicker of surprise there, like she didn’t expect to catch me off guard, but now that she has, she’s not quite sure what to do with it. Her lips part like she’s about to say something else, but then she just watches me back, eyes thoughtful. Curious. Like maybe she’s seeing me differently now, too.

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