Page 7 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

I turn on my heel before I do something stupid. Like grin back or ask him what shampoo he uses. Or worse—enjoy this. I don’t need a distraction with great bone structure and questionable boundaries.

Behind me, I hear him call out, “You’ve got great walk-away energy. It's like sass and mystery had a baby and put on a killer pair of heels.”

"I don't have on heels..."

"A figure of speech, Doc."

I close the door in his handsome face—cheeks flushed, heart doing something weird and traitorous in my chest. It takes me five minutes—plus one angry sip of iced coffee, a dramatic rereading of my notes and hearing him leave—to realize he never actually said why he was here. Not a word about his role, his plan, or what he thinks he’s doing nosing around my rental unit. Just strolled in, dazzled, deflected, and left me spinning like a rookie.

I glance down at my notes. It’s a line from a faded sailor’s journal, written in halting Spanish and patched with marginalia. It describes bad weather, a captain's desperate attempt to anchor near a coastal point known for limestone caves, and an order to hide'la joya del mar'—the jewel of the sea—where 'the sun meets stone, and no tide dares chase it.' It's vague. Frustrating.

But something in the phrasing sticks. Not shipwreck debris in open water. Not a cargo dump. Hidden. Deliberate. Which means the next clue isn’t just legend—it’s physical, and it’s likely tucked away in a cave system or coastal inlet somewhere off Pelican Point, sealed up tight by centuries of erosion and secrecy.

And Cruz Devlin? He might be the spark that makes this expedition unforgettable—or the wildfire that burns it all down. Either way, I’d be a fool not to keep one eye on the legend… and the other on him.

2

CRUZ

Dr. Crystal Evans is going to be a pain in the ass. The kind with a vocabulary that could verbally undress you in under sixty seconds and a glare that could send grown men into early retirement.

Not just because she made it clear she considers me to be nothing more than a superficial celebrity or because she yanked that ledger away from me like I was about to drool on it. It’s the way she looks at me, like she already has me figured out and doesn’t think much of what she sees. She’s smart—dangerously so—and sharp enough to cut through the usual charm I toss around like confetti. She’s got no patience for theatrics and even less for egos, which means I’m going to have to bring something I rarely rely on: actual effort. And for a guy who’s made a living being exactly that—impressive at a glance—that’s both irritating and… unexpectedly fun.

I leave her place with my jaw tight and my ego slightly bruised, trying not to take it personally. Except I do. Of course I do. Not because I need her approval—I don’t—but because she didn’t even flinch. Most people—even the academic types—give me some version of the nod, the smile, theoh-you’re-that-guyrecognition.

Crystal? She didn’t blink. She challenged me with every word, cut through the showman crap like it bored her. She’s the real deal. Brains that slice, a mouth that pulls no punches, and eyes that see through the polished version of me I’ve perfected for years. And I’ve got a feeling she’s going to wreck my patience before she ever helps me find that treasure.

“Natural conflict,” Mike Rowley calls it. “That’s what makes good television.”

Mike, my overly spray-tanned producer, is waiting for me near the dock with a clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, and the smug satisfaction of a man who thinks he just cast the next hit rom-com. I toss the hidden recording device in his direction.

He points at me like I’m a trained seal who just balanced a beach ball on his nose. Then he leans in with a grin too white to be natural. “Love the tension. Keep leaning into that, yeah? Gold. Absolute gold.”

I give him a look that saysI’d rather belly-flop into a school of jellyfish while screaming live on air.

"She hates me," I groan, dragging a hand through my hair like that might undo whatever verbal gut punch just took me down a peg. "I walked in with confidence and left with a PhD in humility."

Behind Mike, Denny laughs as he fiddles with a camera rig and sips an iced coffee like this is all completely normal. He glances up just long enough to see my expression, raises an eyebrow, and lets out a low whistle. "That bad, huh?" he says, clearly enjoying this a little too much. "She roast you with academic precision or just hit you with a straight-up insult?" When I don’t answer, he grins wider. "Damn. I haven’t seen you this off your game since that one reporter asked if your abs were insured."

"I'm telling you, she hates me," I repeat, this time with the weary conviction of a man who’s just been out-debated, out-researched, and out-snarked. "I’m like a glitter bomb in a rare book library to her. And not the fun kind."

“Nah, she just hates your vibe,” he laughs. I realize Denny spends a lot of time laughing at me—with me as well. “Big difference. I'd bet serious money that it’s you she’s definitely curious about. You rate highly with the intellectual type. The show may focus on the treasure, but you do get the facts straight. That’s hot history professor meets pirate hunter material right there.”

I groan. “She’s not my type.”

I deserve a fine for telling such a colossal lie. She is precisely my type—every damn detail. All soft curves and fierce opinions, blonde waves that look like they’d tangle perfectly in my fingers, and that sharp brain of hers that could probably dismantle me with a single historical reference. Natural, brilliant, and quick with a comeback. The kind of woman who makes you want to either impress her—or get out of her way.

“Your type is ‘female with a pulse,’” Denny mutters, smirking behind his coffee. “I’ve seen your dating history, man. She’s way out of your league—and not just academically. She’s got that whole librarian-who-might-stab-you vibe. You? You’re one dive away from being a beer ad.”

He’s not wrong, but that doesn't mean I don’t wish he was. Because if Crystal really is way out of my league, then I’ve already wasted too much time thinking about how her lips curve when she’s about to deliver a snarky comeback, or how she smells faintly like sea salt and old books. It’s distracting. Infuriating. And unfortunately, not going away anytime soon.

Still, I take the Zodiac out to the dive site and drop anchor just past the point. Nothing fancy today, just a little solo recon while Mike’s distracted by location scouting and drone shots. The sun is a little too hot, the wind a little too quiet, and my thoughts way too loud. I gear up, slow and methodical, hoping the water will do what it always does—mute the chaos and give me something real.

I perch on the edge of the boat, checking and rechecking my gear with muscle memory so ingrained I could do it blindfolded. Regulator, harness, mask—all secured. I slide the tank into place, test the valve, listen for that perfect hiss. The wetsuit’s snug, the dive watch synced. This part, at least, is clean. Controlled. Mine.

When I roll backward into the water, it hits me with a shock of cold clarity. The Atlantic Ocean is always cold. The moment I slide beneath the surface, it’s like flipping a switch. Silence wraps around me. My world narrows to breath, pressure, movement. Every noise, every distraction, falls away—except one.

Even down here, thirty feet beneath the noise, where there should only be the rhythm of my breath and the soft crush of pressure against my body, I can still hear her voice echoing in the back of my skull. It wedges itself between the pulse of the ocean and the thrum of my thoughts—cutting through like sonar. Her words replay, crisp and cool, like she’s right there beside me in the dark, arms crossed, judging my technique.

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