Page 22 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

That earns me a full smirk. Barely.

“I mean,” he says, voice dropping low, “I could go with ‘hot,’ or ‘brilliant,’ or ‘ridiculously sexy marine historian who probably knows how to disarm me with a well-placed footnote.’”

Despite myself, I smile. But it fades as fast as his does.

“Talk to me,” I say, quieter this time. “Please.”

He studies me for a beat, like he’s weighing whether or not I’m ready for whatever’s been clawing at him. Then he nods. Just once.

“His name is Remy.”

I blink. “Okay… and?”

His voice flattens. “He was my teammate. Back when I was still in.”

I shift closer, my curiosity rising with the undercurrent in his voice—tension laced with something bitter, personal.

“What happened?”

Cruz’s eyes darken, focused somewhere past me. “Syria. Recon dive. I told you about that one. Wreck site recovery. We were tight—until that op. He froze in a fuselage crawlspace. Couldn’t move. I pulled him out, but… it changed him. Changed everything.”

I watch his expression, the way his hands flex against the table like he’s still trying to pull something—someone—free from that wreckage.

“He never forgave me for dragging him out,” Cruz says. “Thought I exposed him. Made him look weak. He left not long after. And now? He’s here. In Pelican Point.”

My stomach turns. “He’s the one sabotaging us.”

Cruz nods. “He’s not just watching anymore, Crystal. He’s making moves.”

A long beat passes between us.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I ask, not accusing—just wanting to understand.

“I needed to be sure. And I didn’t want to drop his name until I had proof. Until I could protect you from what it meant.”

“I don’t need protecting,” I say. “I need partnership.”

His gaze sharpens. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you now.”

I nod, the storm still in my chest but quieter now. At least I know which direction it’s coming from.

“So what now?”

Cruz leans forward, that dangerous glint returning to his eyes.

“Now we outmaneuver him.”

And just like that, the silence between us shifts—from fear to resolve. From secrets to strategy. Whatever Remy’s playing at?

He just made it personal.

Cruz exhales, slow and ragged, then steps back from the table like it physically cost him something to say Remy's name aloud. He scrubs a hand down his face—more like he’s trying to wipe away the memory than the sweat. For a second, I see something in his expression I’ve never seen before: fear. Not of Remy exactly—but of what Remy means. Of what might be coming next. It makes my breath hitch, just for a moment. Because if Cruz Devlin—the man who stares down sharks and storms like they’re just minor inconveniences—looks like this? We’re not just in deep. We’re in danger.

“Old teammate. Old ghost. He’s here. Or he was. I caught him on a drone cam. My guess is he's the one who sabotaged our gear boat. And earlier, I found a note he left in one of the underwater cams.”

My stomach dips. “What kind of note?”

Cruz meets my eyes. “The kind that makes it clear this isn’t just about treasure anymore. It’s personal.”

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