Page 6 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

I don’t really have a meeting with anyone, but rather with some ancient documents back in my room. I munch on my muffin and drink my coffee on the walk back before going inside my home-away-from-home, washing and drying my hands before pulling on my archivist gloves. The university was gracious enough to allow me to bring some fragile documents with me.

I’m wrist-deep in a shipping ledger from 1714, lost in faded ink and meticulous calligraphy, when the sound of laughter cuts through the quiet like a cannonball through calm water. It’s loud, warm, and entirely too close—like someone just walked in here with a megaphone and a sense of entitlement.

Then comes the voice—low, amused, and irritatingly smooth, the kind of voice that probably gets the person out of parking tickets and into too many beds. “Is this where the magic happens?”

I glance up, and freeze. He’s leaning against the doorway like a romance cover that got bored with being gawked at. Dark hair with sun-bleached streaks, which I can't decide are natural or done by a high-end hair stylist. Tanned skin. A grin, as if bestowed by the gods of swagger, graces his face. A faded black t-shirt that is stretched and hugs his frame just enough to be on the right side of obscene. His faded Levi's—button-up, of course—hang low on his hips.

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to sound irritated and keep from drooling at the same time.

“Looking for the historian.” He steps inside, glancing around. “You couldn’t possibly be her.”

"I couldn't? Why not?"

He turns up the wattage on his smile. "You're much too pretty."

I snort and find it hard not to respond to what seems to be his effortless charm. “Hardly. But like it or not, I’m the historian. Most people don't enjoy sniffing 300-year-old paper for fun.”

He grins, and damn it, it’s ridiculously disarming. Like he knows exactly how to pull off that combination of boyish charm and rogue-level confidence, bordering on arrogance. “I knew you had main character energy. Mike thought you'd be some bookish academian; he was so wrong.”

I blink. I think this guy has been out in the sun too long. “Excuse me?”

He offers a hand. “Cruz Devlin. Treasure hunter. Adventurer. Television personality extraordinaire, if you ask the right bartender.”

I stare at his hand like it’s a snake, then stand and take it, anyway. “Dr. Crystal Evans. Historian. Scholar. Currently re-evaluating my life choices.”

His smile widens, and he doesn’t look even a little offended. “So you’re the brain and I’m the brawn—works for me.”

“Oh, good. You’ve already assigned us our roles. That’ll save us time.”

He leans against the table, scanning my open books. “You really think there’s something to thisLa Reina de Orostory?”

“I think there’s enough evidence in tales of the survivors and inconsistencies in the shipping manifests to warrant a look.” I pull the book away as he tries to peek. “And I think people who play pirates on TV should maybe stay in their lane.”

“Ouch.” He holds a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Crystal.”

“It’sDr.Evans.”

“Of course it is,” he says with a wink and a chuckle.

We stare at each other for a beat too long; the air charged with something sharp-edged and electric. It’s not just banter—it’s a warning shot and a dare, wrapped in a long look that makes my skin feel a little too tight. I hate how aware I am of him—how he smells like the ocean after a storm and some expensive soap probably stolen from a boutique hotel. The kind of man your mother warns you about while secretly hoping you ignore her.

Then he lifts his eyebrow. “I didn't mean to offend you, Doc. So, you think we can be friends?"

"Doubtful…"

"Fair enough for now. How about partners?”

I snort. “I have little choice. The guy funding this..."

"Any chance you know who it is?"

He doesn't know either? Curiouser and curiouser. "Not a clue, and let's be clear, you’re not touching my research.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve clearly got the brainpower, and I’ve got the dive gear and fanbase. You dig up the boring truth; I’ll dig up the shiny stuff. Viewers love a good odd couple.”

I step in close, toe to toe, and look up at him. “Look, Devlin. I’m here to chase down centuries-old maritime secrets, not audition for some lost season of ‘Treasure Bros Gone Wild.’” I raise an eyebrow as he laughs. “I like facts, not fame. I promise not to get in your way if you try not to get in mine.”

He leans down, a glint in his eye. “And I’m here to find gold, jewelry, gems and the like. If that happens to involve annoying the hell out of you in the process?” He shrugs. “Even better.”

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