Page 8 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

It’s like she set up camp in my subconscious, pitched a tent, built a bonfire, and invited all my better judgment to roast marshmallows while she rewired my brain. She’s not just a passing thought—she’s embedded, disruptive, and loud in all the ways I pretend don’t get to me.

But even underwater, I can hear her voice in my head—'I like facts, not fame...promise not to get in my way.’

The woman’s got steel in her spine and uses words like scalpels. I respect that. Hell, I admire it. It's rare—especially in this world—for someone to occupy their space like they own it with no need of a spotlight. There’s something undeniably powerful about it. Sharp. Sexy. The way she slices through the fluff and gets to the core of things? It shouldn’t be attractive. But it is. It really, really is.

I remember another voice—calmer, lower. A mission briefing—sharp, efficient, the kind that makes your spine straighten on instinct. Radio static crackling around the memory like ghosts in the water. Then the descent. The flicker of shadows. A dive that went sideways before we even knew we were in trouble. Remy’s wide eyes. Fear where there had never been fear before. That split second when you worry you might not get everyone out. When the ocean stops being a place you love and becomes an opponent you might not beat.

I shake it off—force myself to blink, adjust my buoyancy, refocus on the seafloor below. That memory always comes fast and cold, like a rip current that yanks me sideways. But I’ve learned how to steer out of it. One breath at a time, one kick of my fins. The past stays in the past—above water, not down here where the pressure is real, and everything false gets crushed. I keep moving.

I’ve made peace with the past. Mostly. I left the SEALs for a reason—a reason that still catches in my chest on the quiet days. I still dive, but now I do it on my terms. I pick the mission; I set the rules. There’s no voice in my ear calling the shots, no countdown, no brother-in-arms depending on me to make it out alive.

By the time I’m back on deck, the sun’s dipped low enough to turn the whole sky gold, the kind of quiet color that feels like the end of something. I peel off my gear slowly, muscles humming, mind racing, saltwater drying on my skin. My phone buzzes with a text from Mike—something about drone angles and shirtless B-roll. I don’t even open it. I toss the phone into my dry bag, climb behind the wheel, and point the nose of the boat toward shore. I need dry clothes, a decent meal, and about five fewer thoughts about Crystal Evans. Only two of those things are remotely possible.

Crystal is going to drive me insane. But she’s also the best lead I’ve got on findingLa Reina de Oro. And if this thing is going to work—if we’re really going to uncover something legendary—I need her. Not just because she’s brilliant, but because the anonymous investor funding this entire expedition, including a large bonus for yours truly, made it a non-negotiable. No Crystal, no funding, no bonus. And I may hate being managed—but I hate missing treasure even more.

Even if it means sharing the credit. Even if it means sharing the camera. Hell, even if it means letting her win half the arguments—because I’m starting to suspect watching her win might be more fun than winning myself.

Back at the lighthouse, I spot her on the front steps; she looks like someone dropped her straight from an indie film about tortured genius women who always get the last word. She’s got a notebook balanced on her knee, a pen between her teeth, and that same concentrated scowl she wore when she told me to stay out of her research. She doesn’t see me yet—too busy scribbling with a second pen and a kind of laser focus that makes people nervous. Hair loose, legs tucked under her, scribbling like she’s solving a war crime instead of hunting for lost gold. And somehow, yeah, it makes her even more distracting.

She looks focused. Brilliant. Totally out of my league in the kind of way that makes me want to step up, not step back. It’s not just how she looks—though, yeah, that’s a whole thing—it’s the way she owns every bit of the surrounding space. Confident, sharp, completely absorbed in her work like the rest of the world can wait. There’s power in that, and maybe I’ve spent too much time around people who fake it, because the real thing? It hits differently. Harder. Hotter.

I clear my throat—just loud enough to be polite, not so loud I sound like I’m announcing a dinner party. She glances up, startled, pen still between her teeth, then sighs like my presence is both inevitable and mildly inconvenient. That sigh? It's not annoyed. It's layered. Like she's bracing herself for the sparring match she didn’t put on the schedule—but might not totally hate.

“Devlin.”

“Doc.”

“You will not call me that.”

“Right, sorry—Doctor Professor Evans, Keeper of Legends and Slayer of Egos.”

She rolls her eyes and tries to stifle the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, but it’s there—unmistakable. It’s not the big, indulgent kind of smile that means you’re winning; it’s the one that says you’ve surprised her, maybe even earned a point. She doesn’t move, just studies me like she’s deciding whether I’m still a nuisance or possibly worth the hassle.

“I saw you had a cave inlet highlighted on the map you had with you. I was going to head over that way. Would you like to come along and explore it tomorrow?” I ask.

Her pen pauses mid-word like I just offered to co-author her next academic paper. “You’re agreeing to a scouting trip?” she asks, and for the first time, there’s no edge to her voice. Just curiosity. Maybe a hint of hope. It’s subtle, but it’s there—and I don’t miss the way she shifts slightly toward me, like she wasn’t expecting the yes, but she’s not mad about it.

“Against my better judgment,” I tease. “But if you want to come, I've got extra gear. Do you dive?”

“Yes. Perhaps not quite as well as you, but could you do me a favor?” she says. “Wear a shirt. This isn’t Baywatch, and I'm not a Baywatch Babe.”

“No, but you could be,” I say. “As for me, I find shirts restrict my creative process...”

"Not to mention lower your ratings."

Ouch. "True enough." I put the back of my hand against my forehead. "The things I do for my viewers."

And just like that, her lips twitch—just enough to tell me I’ve landed somewhere between amusing and unexpectedly tolerable. It’s not a full grin, but it’s real. A flicker of something warmer than annoyance. Like she’s beginning to suspect I might be more than just a walking ego with a nice boat.

If we survive this partnership, it’s going to be one hell of a ride—the kind that leaves your pulse racing, your pride bruised, and maybe, if you're lucky, your heart in places you didn’t expect it to be.

3

CRUZ

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Dr. Crystal Evans, it’s that she doesn’t do small talk. Not because she’s cold—but because she’s all substance. Every word has weight, every silence has purpose. She doesn’t fill space with chatter—she holds it, measures it, decides if it’s worth occupying. It’s intimidating. It’s intriguing. And it makes you want to earn every sentence she gives you.

She does facts. Footnotes. Cross-referenced timelines and aggressively color-coded note tabs. She breathes history like it’s oxygen and sighs with the gravity of a betrayed librarian when you smudge the margin of a 200-year-old map.

---