Page 4

Harper

Ten days left to find Monty Montana, who is, like, the Mt. Everest of treasure hunters

The next morning, I sipped a strong cup of bitter coffee in the front seat of my car and glared out at The Wreckage. My sleep the night before had been more restless than restful, my body too keyed up from the day’s bizarre events to truly settle.

Exhausted or not, Eve would be in for a rude awakening when she realized just how determined I was to find Monty and write this story. I’d spent the better part of those sleepless hours rehashing every frustrating detail of our interaction yesterday.

Her coy, flirtatious energy, just this side of cocky. Her confident walk, practically a swagger. That lazy half grin of hers, all sultry heat.

Even her hair felt dangerously alluring—dark as midnight, shaved close on both sides with a riot of wavy curls on the top. A single lock had fallen carelessly across her forehead, like she was the wicked rake in a historical romance.

My fingers had itched to sweep it back.

I took another sip and sharpened my glare out the window.

The salvage shop’s front door opened, revealing a person I didn’t recognize.

Probably just a customer, but I couldn’t risk being wrong.

I ducked my head beneath the steering wheel like the world’s clumsiest detective on a stakeout.

Coffee spilled down the inside of my wrist, dripping onto the stack of notes I’d balanced in my lap.

Cursing, I tried to mop it up with the fast-food napkins I’d collected from my past week on the road, chasing the ghost of Monty Montana through what felt like every town in New Mexico.

My phone buzzed with a text from Greg, my editor, that just said, update??!?!?

I was used to Greg’s inane use of superfluous punctuation by now, but the sight of it still sent my butterfly-filled stomach pitching about like a ship on stormy seas.

Greg had been my editor for the past three years.

What he lacked in humor he more than made up for by having a giant stick up his ass.

After debating a few different replies, I went with politely begging for an act of editorial mercy: I’m making decent headway, though an extension would be helpful.

There are signs Monty might be gearing up to search for the missing Blackburn Diamonds—a popular urban legend and famous mystery in this region.

But it’s also on many verified lists as being one of the last truly hidden treasures in the U.S. Would make a great extra story angle!

His immediate response: No extension. I need the story in ten days.

“Goddammit,” I whispered, tossing my phone across the seat. Half my research time in Santa Fe wasted, and what did I have to show for it? The magazine had already booked my return flight home.

At this rate, I’d be writing up most of my article on the plane.

Without an interview, I only had a skeletal outline to work from so far, plus a hasty summary of Monty’s accomplishments.

I’d attempted to write last night but only managed to type out: “ a story about a treasure hunter infamous for her air of mystery is actually super fucking boring if she refuses to divulge her secrets even though I am actually quite nice and only trying to help!!! ”

I flinched again when my phone rang, but my anxiety turned to delight when I saw who was video-calling me. I propped the phone on my dashboard and swiped to answer it.

My sister Daphne’s sleepy face appeared, chin propped on her hand.

She was standing in the dimly lit kitchen at the coffee shop where she worked, wearing large gold earrings that dangled in her messy hair.

The apartment we shared in Brooklyn was just around the corner, a small but sunshine-y spot we’d filled with too many books and just enough plants.

“Morning,” Daphne said through a yawn. “You look like shit.”

I tugged down the mirror, frowning at the dark bags beneath my eyes, all the wisps of hair that had already escaped my meticulous bun. “Cut me some slack,” I grumbled. “I’m a reporter on deadline. On the road, no less. Can’t a girl get a little unconditional love from her only sibling?”

Daphne lowered her voice, and I was all too aware of the very real concern in her eyes. “I can tell this job is getting to you, Harp. I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” I said breezily. “I’m booked and busy. Happy and healthy.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re exhausted and permanently stressed out. You haven’t taken a weekend off in years. In fact, this Monty story is the first time I’ve seen you actually intrigued by an assignment in a long time.”

“You know why, though,” I said, fighting the urge to fidget. “Dad said—”

“Not just because of Dad,” she interrupted. “I think you like this Monty person. I think this story is fun . When was the last time you let yourself be inspired, like when we were kids?”

“I hate to break it to you, but Monty is very MIA,” I shot back. “Not sure I can be inspired by someone who refuses to be found.”

Daphne grinned, tapping the screen the way she usually tapped the tip of my nose. “You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“And you’re being…being deliberately, um… reasonable ,” I stammered out.

Daphne laughed, but I realized she’d caught me in a tiny bit of a lie.

The name Monty Montana had rattled around in the dustiest corners of my brain ever since my father had first brought her up at a dinner party, saying her name with just enough disappointed yearning to pique my interest. But it wasn’t until Greg happened to dangle her story in front of me a few weeks later, like I was a lion being fed at the zoo, that I’d let myself dig into her extraordinary backstory.

Twenty-five years ago, she very famously discovered the buried remains of La Venganza , a Spanish warship, at the bottom of the ocean off the coast of Florida.

Even the quickest internet search returned the photograph she was well-known for.

A local reporter had snapped a picture of Monty and her wife, Ruby, as they’d walked onto a beach near Key West, both still in their wet suits and scuba gear.

A crowd had gathered, following rumors that the expedition team had finally uncovered something.

In the photo, Monty’s goggles are shoved up into her hair, and she’s holding a piece of the ship’s hull above her head. It’s a pose of pure, unadulterated victory. Her grin is broad. Boisterous. But she’s not even gazing at the artifact she’d spent two years searching for.

In the picture, she’s gazing down at Ruby. Who, in turn, has been captured mid-laugh. Both of them proud and outspoken queer women in the notoriously homophobic nineties. Both of them brazenly in love.

I had never, not once, embarked on the kind of wild and windswept adventure these women had. Had never, not even once , had a romantic partner—of any gender—gaze at me with such ardent devotion.

The first time I’d seen that picture, my skin had heated with a delirious mixture of want and envy. And something defiant had taken root in my heart, delicate and audacious in equal measure.

It was so starkly different from the way I felt about my everyday life that it terrified me.

Movement in front of The Wreckage had my gaze snapping to the squealing metal door, currently being pushed open by the woman dominating my thoughts.

Eve sauntered into the bright morning sunlight, glimmering above the asphalt.

She wore a pair of ripped-up jeans and a white tank top, revealing strong shoulders and toned arms almost fully covered in tattoos.

Her aviator sunglasses refracted the light, and her effortless smile was directed at a delivery person holding a large box.

My mouth went dry.

“Speaking of, uh…of fun,” I said to my sister, “I just spotted my hot lead—my warm lead, I mean. For the story.”

“Sure you did,” Daphne drawled. “Go get that hot lead, Harp. Call me later?”

I rushed to grab my bag, keys, and notepad. “Love you, miss you, don’t get into any trouble.”

I jumped out of the car, forcing my body to slow down as I approached Eve, the best lead I had in a story that still felt too flimsy to sink my teeth into.

But I had way too much riding on this—professionally and personally—to let a little thing like “instant distrust” get in the way of seeing it through.

“Good morning, Eve,” I said pleasantly, extending my hand. “Harper. Harper Hendrix? We met yesterday regarding the location of your aunt?”

Eve’s expression was inscrutable behind those aviators, though I knew they hid wide, dark eyes and high cheekbones. Her expressive mouth was pressed into a thin line, and that same unruly curl tempted me to lean in close.

Eve Bardot’s beauty was as compelling as a knifepoint—sharp. Distracting. The kind of woman who tempts and charms before smashing your heart beneath her boot heel.

In response, I straightened my spine and held my hand out even farther.

She ignored it.

“I remember you, Hendrix,” she said smoothly.

“Then you’ll surely remember my persistence.”

She turned away immediately, leaving me to swelter in the sun. “And you’ll surely remember that I’m not saying shit.”

Then she slammed the door in my face.

Undeterred, I yanked it back open and followed the surly salvager inside her shop.

My gaze skipped to the register to find her leaning against it, arms crossed over her chest, all lean muscle and loose confidence.

A red handkerchief dangled from the side of her jean pocket, and her tattooed fingers flexed where they gripped her biceps.

“You’re wasting your time, Hendrix,” she said.

I raised my chin. “It’s Harper, actually.”

“I know what your damn name is.”

My lips parted on a shaky breath. “Well, in that case—” I took a few wary steps forward, like I was approaching a feral cat. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of my own time and whether or not I’m wasting it?”

Eve remained silent.