Chapter 12
CRUZ
The sun crests over the Gulf like it knows the secrets we've just uncovered, throwing golden light across Serenity’s deck and turning salt spray into prisms. It should feel like the end of something. A finish line. Instead, it feels like the beginning of whatever the hell comes next. The deck smells like salt, teak, and victory—or maybe just relief. And for once, I’m not looking ahead with my usual dose of suspicion. Not with her beside me, not after what we just survived, and not with the weight of the past finally shrugged off our shoulders like a wet dive suit.
Crystal stands at the bow, hair whipped by the wind like a goddess of wrecked libraries and tidal chaos, fingers brushing the rail like she needs to anchor herself to something real before she floats away on pure adrenaline and stubborn will.
She’s got her journal pressed tight to her chest like it’s both a shield and a secret weapon, the pages stuffed with half-translated maps, ink-smudged annotations, and obscure references only she can decipher. She mutters something about colonial limestone trade patterns and uses words like "stratigraphy" like they’re flirtation.
It’s hot. Unreasonably, unfairly hot. And not just because she’s barefoot in my shirt again—my favorite old one, damn her—or because I’m mentally undressing her every five minutes with the single-minded intensity of a man who knows exactly what’s under there. It’s hot because she belongs here, on this boat, at this moment, with me. And I’m in so deep it’s almost funny.
"You keep staring at me like I'm going to disappear," she says, not turning around.
"Not staring," I lie. "Just memorizing."
She glances back at me over her shoulder, her eyes dancing with merriment. "Bullshit." Crystal finds me amusing. I guess there are worse things a guy can be. Comic relief and sex god to a brilliant historian... doesn't sound like a bad gig.
"Maybe, but effective."
Before she can answer, the crew boat pulls alongside. Denny’s at the helm, but he’s not alone. There’s someone beside him—tall, broad-shouldered, muscular and dressed like a guy who owns too many denim shirts and not enough sunscreen. He hops onto Serenity like he belongs here, waving at Crystal like they’re old friends. I tense.
"Ryan?" she says, surprised.
The guy grins. "Long time no see, Dr. Evans." He shakes his head. "I didn't think you’d actually find the damn thing."
Crystal stares. Then her eyebrows shoot up. "You funded this?"
Ryan shrugs. "Sort of. Anonymously. I had a hunch you were the only one smart enough to get close. I just didn’t count on the side quests."
"Side quests?" I echo, stepping forward, my voice edged with suspicion.
My protective instinct flares hard and fast as I study the man in front of me more closely. Ryan Murphy--former SEAL, billionaire. I’ve heard of him—mostly by reputation. Venture capitalist, big fish in petroleum exploration, development and urban redevelopment circles--supposedly the kind of guy who finances restoration projects with one hand and wrangles global investors with the other.
We’ve crossed paths once at a veterans gala in Key West, but it didn’t go beyond the stiff handshake and polite nod. Still, I remember his presence—commanding, calculating. Now that I’m seeing the whole picture, the anonymous backer with deep pockets and oddly specific timing? Of course it’s him. And it’s starting to make a lot more sense.
"You sent her into this mess blind?"
"I sent her equipped," Ryan says, not unkindly. "I sent her you. I figured between the two of you, you'd find the damn thing and stay safe."
Crystal cocks her head. "What made you so sure?"
"I know both of you by reputation. Denny and Mike Rowley swore up and down that you were the only ones crazy and capable enough to pull this off. And Cruz—we’ve met before, briefly, at that Key West veterans gala, remember? You looked like you wanted to punch half the room. I've followed your salvage work since—impressive. Still, betting on the recommendations of a jarhead and a Ranger might not have been the safest investment... but clearly, it paid off.
A cool patrician blonde appears from below deck of the crew boat, apparently clueless as to what has been going on. Unless I miss my guess, she would be Candace Prescott, Ryan Murphy's romantic partner. She's laughing and clutching a champagne bottle. "Oh God, are you playing matchmaker again?"
Ryan drops to one knee. "Baby, I just want everyone else to be as happy as we are. Cruz, toss me the ring."
Shaking my head, I do as requested with a grin. Only Ryan Murphy would ask someone to toss him a priceless artifact while kneeling on my boat.
Catching it easily, he says to Crystal, "You found history." He refocuses his attention on Candace. "And I found the one thing more valuable."
Candace gasps. "Ryan—what are you?—?"
He holds up the Mar Azul ring, allowing it to gleam in the sun like it knew this was the endgame all along—like it was waiting for this exact moment, in this exact place, to fulfill a purpose older than any of us. The intricate blue-green stone pulses with reflected light, casting fractured color across Candace’s awestruck face. It doesn’t just shine—it radiates, like it’s proud to be part of something bigger than gold or glory. Like it knows it’s found its way home.
"It’s not treasure," he says. "It’s a promise. Marry me, Candace."
Candace nods and allows Mike to help her from the crew boat to the Serenity. She is speechless, her eyes glossy as Ryan stands and holds the ring out in front of her.
"I'm going to need a binding verbal commitment before you get the ring," teases Ryan.
Candace grabs it and places it on her third finger. "Give me my ring, jackass."
The entire boat erupts into cheers and laughter. Denny does an exaggerated bow, basking in his own theatrical flair. I raise an eyebrow at Crystal as I move toward her. She looks momentarily stunned—like she just got hit by every emotion on the spectrum, then wrapped them up in her favorite leather journal for later dissection. Her jaw moves slightly, like she’s trying to formulate a response, but all she does is blink. Then smile. Soft, hesitant, completely unguarded.
"Wasn't that romantic?" she whispers as she leans into me.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my tone casual, even though everything in me is dialed in on her.
For a moment, she glances out toward the horizon, like she’s trying to reset her brain. When she turns back to me, her voice is tight around the edges. "That was… not what I expected today."
She nods slowly, then lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been building since sunrise. "Yeah. I think we just got emotionally punked by a billionaire in denim."
I chuckle, although it sounds a little more defensive than I'd like it to. "Welcome to my world, but don't get any ideas."
She steps closer, fingers curling in my shirt. "Too late."
I laugh, the sound low and real, but there’s something else boiling up—deeper, sharper. The kind of emotion I usually keep buried beneath bravado and mission focus. But it’s not staying quiet this time. It surges up, raw and loud, wrapping around my ribs like a vice and whispering all the things I haven’t dared admit. Not just that I want her here. But that I need her here. That somewhere between dives and danger, she became the anchor I didn’t know I was missing.
"I know we haven’t known each other long," I say, my voice low and steady, thick with everything I haven’t said until now, "but nothing in my life—not the Navy, not the treasure hunts, not even Serenity—has felt as right as this. As for you, I can’t imagine going back to a life without you in it. Not just as a partner on the water, but as my partner. In crime. In chaos. In everything."
Candace wanders over, handing Crystal a bottle of champagne and giving me side-eye. "Make the former frogman here tell you he loves you before you answer him."
Crystal laughs—a sound that reminds me of champagne bubbles. "You heard the lady. Tell me you love me, jackass."
I look at Ryan, who comes up behind Candace, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. "You heard the lady."
I laugh, taking a knee. Something told me this morning to open up the onboard safe and retrieve my mother's ring. Crystal gasps as I hold it up to her. "I love you, Crystal, and I'd be ever so grateful if you'd agree to being my wife."
Candace glances over her shoulder at Ryan. "He did that so much better than you."
"Yeah, but my ring..."
"That's my ring, jackass."
Ryan laughs. "I stand corrected. Your ring is much bigger."
Crystal's eyes lock on mine. Smart. Fierce. Vulnerable in the ways that count. "You're sure?"
"I’m not sure of a lot of things, but I'm sure of you… of us. I'd like an answer and an affirmation of your feelings."
She grabs my shirt and hauls me up to my feet, her lips locking onto mine with a fierce possessiveness and profound passion. "I love you too. Now gimme my ring." She takes the ring, kisses me again, and slips it onto her finger.
Before either of us can say more, Mike climbs aboard. Crisp polo, perfect teeth, the Hollywood producer vibe that makes me want to roll my eyes and punch something at the same time.
"You two," he says, pointing between us. "I have notes. Big ones. But we can work with this. We'll pivot the concept. She's in."
Crystal blinks. "What?"
"The show," Mike says. "We shift the narrative. Treasure brawn meets brains. Romance, history, danger, legacy. The Hunt: Cruz and Crystal, Dive and Conquer, Rogue Currents. We’ll figure it out. I’m thinking the addition of Crystal gives us enormous potential… and we could do podcasts, TED talks, and the like."
Crystal snorts. "I haven’t even signed anything."
"Doesn’t matter. The network loves you. And the chemistry? Gold."
I glance at her, then back at Mike. "You're not wrong."
She flushes, then rolls her eyes. "Fine. But I get final cut."
"Deal," Mike says.
Denny tosses us two champagne flutes with the flair of a man who thinks he's bartending in Monaco. The crew’s already celebrating like it’s the wrap party to an epic series finale—whoops and laughter echo off the water like cannon fire. Ryan and Candace are in their own bubble near the bow, kissing like they're trying to beat a Nicolas Sparks novel at its own game—slow-motion, golden light, the whole damn montage.
But none of it touches me. Not really. Because all I see is her.
Crystal. Wind-whipped hair tangled like sea-thread, eyes bright and unreadable as they flick from person to person. She’s trying to process it all, bottle it up, maybe scribble it into a journal page later when the world calms down. And it’s then I realize—this whole insane journey, the storms and sabotage, the near-death dives and ancient rings—it all brought me to her. My real prize.
And somehow, I know she sees it too. Not just the moment. Me. Us.
She clinks her glass against mine. "To pacts, pirates, and partners in crime."
"And to whatever comes next," I say.
She grins. "Bring it on."
And for the first time in forever, I believe it. Not just in the happily-ever-after that people like me aren't supposed to get, but in the kind where squalls are survived, not avoided. Where love isn't a distraction from the mission but the reason you keep going. The horizon's wide open, salt-washed and sunlit—and so are we. Whatever comes next doesn't matter. I've locked down the true treasure and the light I see shining in Crystal's eyes tells me the old saying that all that glitters isn't gold couldn't be more true.
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