Chapter 2
2
CRUZ
D r. 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, the oh-you’re-that-guy recognition.
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 says I’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.
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 finding La 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.