Chapter 1
1
CRYSTAL
I t started with an email.
Subject line: Academic Opportunity—Fully Funded Maritime Research Expedition
At first, I thought it was spam. The kind of too-good-to-be-true offer that usually includes a Nigerian prince and a promise of riches if you just ‘click here.’ I was two seconds from deleting it when I noticed the signature. It was legit. The wording was polished, the formatting professional, and the institution doing the contacting—one I’d worked with before on a paper about colonial trade routes.
Still. All expenses paid? Pelican Point, Florida? Researching the legend of La Reina de Oro ?
It felt suspiciously like someone had read my grad school thesis and turned it into a choose-your-own-adventure with a budget.
Okay, Crystal, calm down. Breathe.
A chance to dig into one of the great maritime mysteries of the colonial era with access to private archives, obscure ledgers, historical maps, and coastal dive logs? This was my version of a beach vacation. My heart did that fluttery thing it only does when rare ink meets vellum and translation errors become puzzles.
But there was a catch. Isn’t there always?
The investor behind the whole thing remained anonymous and insisted I partner with someone named Cruz Devlin.
Cue the red flags. Anonymous funding and a handpicked mystery partner? Is this how people wind up in documentaries? I did what any self-respecting historian would do. I googled him.
It started innocent. Academic curiosity. Credentials. Dive certifications. Any kind of published work.
Instead, I got… shirtless interviews. Sun-kissed abs. Smug grins so cocky they practically carried their own Wi-Fi signal. And a boat. Always that damn boat. The Serenity. Honestly, it looked like the man had never worn a proper shirt in his life.
There was one particular clip of him popping champagne over a salvaged cannon like it was a bachelor party, then winking at the camera like he knew how ridiculous it was—and didn’t care.
Oh God. He's one of those. A living, breathing clickbait headline.
The kind of guy who probably names his abs and has a signature smolder. Definitely not my type. Not that I have a type. Or time for one.
And yet... The funding was real. And generous. Unusually so for this kind of niche historical fieldwork. Private access to archives no one had touched in years. Full research autonomy. A chance to work outside the academic chokehold for once.
It felt… crafted. Like someone had combed through every academic rabbit hole I’d ever fallen into and tailored a project that hit every one of them.
Still. Cruz Devlin? Really? The man looks like he summers in GQ and has never used a footnote in his life.
I debated for two days. Made a pros-and-cons list.
PRO: Potential original discoveries.
PRO: Fully funded research.
CON: Possible ego-induced migraines.
CON: Reality-TV-adjacent nonsense.
PRO: Potential for groundbreaking scholarship.
CON: Did I mention the abs?
In the end, it wasn’t even close. I packed my notes, my field journals, two backup chargers, and every ounce of academic skepticism I owned, then boarded a plane for Pelican Point. Equal parts excited and suspicious.
Let’s see what all this fuss is about, Devlin. God help me if he shows up shirtless.
* * *
Pelican Point doesn’t care that I’m late, that my GPS gave up halfway through the marshes, or that my rental SUV smells like fried shrimp and existential dread. This town seems to move on its own clock—somewhere between lazy-Sunday-morning and ‘we’ll get to it when we get to it.’ Honestly? It’s kind of refreshing. The world’s in a constant sprint, but Pelican Point isn’t.
I roll through town past rows of pastel bungalows with shutters in beachy shades of mint and coral, each one proudly sporting a front porch and at least one string of fairy lights. A wooden sign, hand-painted and slightly crooked, welcomes me in curly letters: Pelican Point: The Treasure is in the Living. Cheesy? Sure. But it gets me. I actually smile.
There’s something about this place—worn but not worn out. It’s got the vibe of somewhere that’s taken a few hits and decided to paint over the bruises in sunshine yellow and seafoam green. The kind of town that refuses to quit just because the tourists did.
Back in the sixties, Pelican Point was Florida’s golden girl—shiny and sun-drenched, with a swanky hotel, a bustling boardwalk, and ice cream parlors that probably made a mean banana split. You can almost picture it: grandmas in cat-eye sunglasses, kids with sticky fingers and seashell necklaces, dads trying to grill fish while battling seagulls.
Now? Not quite the same picture.
The hotel has long ago been abandoned. Hurricanes tore through, the economy tanked, and the tourists faded like cheap beach towels left in the sun too long. What’s left is a town still trying to hold onto its soul. Half the signs are sun-faded. More than a few shops are closed or halfway through a renovation that may or may not ever get finished. But there’s also flower boxes. Fresh paint. A hopeful kind of grit that I can’t help but admire. People wave when I drive past. Like, with their whole hand. It’s disarming.
There’s a quiet kind of charm here. The ‘we’re not dead yet’ kind. You can feel it in the salty air and the way some of the bait shops have turned into wine bars. Old shell shops now sell locally made soaps and eco-friendly beach hats. The past and present are holding hands, maybe even slow dancing.
I kind of love it. Which makes the whole setup even more frustrating.
Because despite how much I want this expedition to work—despite how perfect the timing is and how rare the opportunity—I’m still not thrilled that the anonymous investor funding this thing insisted I partner with one Cruz Devlin.
Yes, that Cruz Devlin. Underwater cowboy. Salvage diver. Reality TV bro with a tan too perfect to be trusted and a smile that looks like it comes with its own sound effect. He’s like if Indiana Jones had a YouTube channel and an energy drink sponsorship.
And apparently, I don’t get to do any of this—no access to the archives, the dive permits, the equipment—unless I agree to play nicely with Mr. Shipwrecks-and-Spray-Tans.
Whoever's writing the checks for this little adventure made that part crystal clear: no Cruz, no funding.
Awesome.
I park near the marina, grab my suitcase, and wheel it down a dock that creaks like it’s telling secrets. Boats bob lazily in the water like they’ve all had a few too many. Somewhere, a gull shrieks and I immediately feel judged.
This isn’t just a research trip. It’s a gamble. A big one. I’m here to find out what really happened to La Reina de Oro , the legendary Spanish ship that allegedly sank off this very coast. There are whispers of lost gold, secret alliances, smuggled relics. It’s exactly the kind of story historians dream about when we’re buried in dusty archives and mediocre coffee.
And if I can dig up something real, something true—maybe I can help this town in the process. Maybe I prove something. Maybe I finally get published in a journal that doesn’t require a login from 1997.
But what I don’t need? A smug, shirtless distraction with a reality show and a hero complex.
My rental is on the bottom floor of the renovated lighthouse that houses the local archive. It’s nothing short of stunning—rich hardwood floors, a sleek open-concept kitchen with butcher block counters, a spa-style bathroom with actual jets in the tub, and sheets so soft I briefly wonder if they’re illegal. There’s lightning-fast internet, a stocked coffee bar, and mood lighting that actually improves my mood. It’s the kind of place that says, 'We might be a small town, but we know how to impress a girl with standards.' I drop my bag, mentally thank the mysterious investor for splurging, and grab my notebook. Time to explore. I take my sunglasses and head out for a walk.
The streets of Pelican Point aren’t quite polished, but they’re trying. I can feel it in the fresh coats of paint, the new signage, the hopeful buzz of music leaking from a wine bar on the corner. There’s scaffolding on two buildings—one mid-restoration, one clearly stalled. A metaphor, maybe.
I pass a cafe with whitewashed shutters and a bookstore that smells like roasted coffee beans and ink. Then I see it—a boutique tucked into a renovated storefront, the name etched in soft script above the window: Coastal Couture. Inside, mannequins stand tall in gauzy, elegant dresses that sway slightly from the breeze sneaking through the open door.
Wedding gowns, I realize. Or close cousins. Cream, blush, pale sea-foam green. Expensive-looking. Hopeful-looking.
A couple stands just inside, the woman holding a dress against her chest while her partner nods like they’d say yes to anything that made her smile like that. My chest twinges unexpectedly.
I keep walking.
Down the block, someone’s repainting a sign by hand. A girl in a linen apron waves at me with a brush, and I nod back.
This town is trying. Trying to be new again. Trying to remember who it was. I get it.
I slow as I reach the boardwalk, the scent of salt stronger here, more real. Somewhere out there under all that blue, a Spanish galleon waits to be found—or not. Either way, the story’s mine now. As I round the corner, another aroma fills my nostrils—vanilla, sugar, butter.
Seaside Sweets not only looks the part of a gourmet bakery, it smells like one. My stomach grumbles and reminds me I haven’t eaten since this morning—the miniscule bag of peanuts they gave me on the plane doesn’t count. I push open the door and a bell chimes from overhead. Two women look up and smile.
The flyer in my rental unit listed several places to eat or get food. "Is this the place I’ve heard about—the bakery boasting the most amazing coffee and pastries in town?" I ask enthusiastically.
The two women exchange a glance before responding in unison, "Yes."
Laughing, I say, "Well then, I must be in the right place. I’m Crystal Evans. I just arrived here in Pelican Point."
"Welcome," the woman behind the counter says warmly, reaching for a menu. "I’m Julie, and this is Emma. What brings you to town?"
I give her my most vibrant smile as I explain, "I’m here on assignment. I work as a historian and a marine archaeologist. I’m researching a legendary sunken ship off the coast. It’s said to be brimming with gold and jewels wrapped in a mystery." I glance at the menu and then hand it back. “Can I get a cup of coffee to go and a chocolate chip muffin?”
Emma whistles appreciatively, her eyes lighting up. "That sounds straight out of a novel."
"Or a movie," Julie adds with a chuckle as she gets my order ready.
I grin. "Hopefully not the kind where everyone dies a horrible death.”
Emma checks the time. "Crap. I’ve got court in thirty minutes. Love you. Be good." She wraps Julie in a quick, heartfelt hug before hurrying toward the door. It’s obvious the two are close.
I glance at my phone. "I’ve got a meeting with the historical society, but I’ll definitely be back. This place? My new favorite already." I hand her some cash and drop the change into the tip jar on the counter.
"Thanks, Crystal. We’ll be here and welcome to Pelican Point. You’re gonna love it."
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 this La Reina de Oro story?”
“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’s Dr. 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.”
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.