Salt & Echoes / The Saltmere Chronicles 04

Some memories don’t stay lost. Some loves don’t stay dead.

Twenty-five years apart.

One amnesiac ex-husband.

And a village full of people live-texting the drama.

Welcome to Saltmere, where second chances come with cream tea and chaos.

Salt & Echoes is the fourth book in The Saltmere Chronicles, a steamy British paranormal romance series set in coastal Cornwall, blending folklore, later-in-life romance, and magic buried in stone and sea.

Contains mature content. Written in British English with authentic Cornish setting and dialect.

Read an excerpt …

The man who'd caught Tamsin's attention was shaking rain from his jacket in that slightly theatrical way some people had, like they were auditioning for a part in a film about weathering storms. He was tall—the sort of tall that made doorways look questionable—with dark hair going silver at the temples and the kind of face that had been devastating twenty years ago and had aged into something even more unfair. The moment she got a clear look at it, her heart stopped.

Garrett.

Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years since she'd last seen him, since he'd walked out of her life and kept walking, and here he was in her pub on a Sunday afternoon like no time had passed at all. Except it had—there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, and he'd filled out through the shoulders in that way men did when they finally grew into their height. The boy she'd married had become this imposing man with weathered hands and confidence etched into every movement.

Her body recognised him before her mind could fully process it—that old, treacherous flutter low in her belly, the sudden dryness in her mouth, the way her fingers tightened reflexively around the glass she was holding. Muscle memory from a time when his smile had been the centre of her world.

But there was something different too—something in the way he carried himself, a stillness that hadn't been there before. The Garrett she'd known had been all restless energy and impulsive decisions. This man moved with deliberation, taking in the pub with patient appreciation rather than the hungry impatience of youth.

It was like seeing a familiar painting reframed—recognisable but somehow transformed by its new context. The fundamental lines of him were the same, but time had coloured in the spaces differently, added shading and depth she didn't know how to read.

Tamsin's hands were still holding a pint glass. She focused on that—the cool weight of it, the condensation on her fingers—and forced herself to keep breathing normally. Professional. She could be professional. She'd spent twenty-five years perfecting the art of not falling apart in public.

Garrett was surveying the pub with obvious appreciation, and there was something achingly familiar about the way he took it all in—the beams, the bar, the view. He'd always loved this place. It was one of the things that had made the divorce so complicated; he'd loved The Tide's Turn almost as much as she did.

Then his gaze landed on her.

For a long, terrible moment, Tamsin waited for recognition. For his face to change, for shock or guilt or anger or something to cross those features she'd once known better than her own. Instead, he smiled. Slow, boyish, and utterly confident—the smile of a man who'd just spotted an attractive woman and decided to take his chances.

Oh God. He didn't recognise her.

Garrett started making his way through the crowd toward the bar, and Tamsin felt something cold and horrible settle in her stomach. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't just not recognise her. They'd been married for five years, together for seven before that. She'd memorised every expression on that face, and now he was looking at her like she was a stranger.

Like she was someone worth chatting up.

He reached the bar, rested both hands on it—those big hands she'd held, kissed, knew every callus and scar on—and gave her that devastating grin he'd always been so good at deploying.

"Afternoon." His voice sent a jolt straight through her. Still the same, still warm and educated and slightly husky. "You look like someone who knows the best thing on the menu."

Tamsin's professional mask snapped into place through sheer force of will. Twenty-five years of practice at pretending everything was fine when it absolutely wasn't.

Except.

Except something was happening in her chest that felt alarmingly like her heart had forgotten how to work properly. Which was ridiculous. She was fifty years old, not fifteen. And she was absolutely not the sort of woman who got flustered by a handsome man with nice hands and an excellent smile, especially this handsome man.

"That'd be the fish and chips," she managed, and her voice came out steady. Thank God for small mercies. "Or the Sunday roast, if you're here for lunch."

He was still smiling at her. Still looking at her with warm appreciation and not a single flicker of recognition. This was insane. This was actually insane.

"Good to know." He leaned slightly on the bar, easy and confident. "Though I was rather hoping you might join me. You look like you could use a break."

The audacity of it hit her like a physical blow. Her ex-husband—her ex-husband—was chatting her up in her own pub, and he had absolutely no idea who she was.

"I'm working," she said, clinging to routine like a lifeline. If she could just get through this interaction, get him seated somewhere far away from the bar, she could—what? Hide in the kitchen? Have a complete breakdown in the walk-in freezer? Figure out what the hell was happening?

"Shame." He said it like he meant it. "I'm Garrett, by the way."

I know, she wanted to scream. I know your name, I know you take your tea with too much sugar, I know you snore when you sleep on your back, I know exactly how you look when you first wake up in the morning—

"Just in from Australia," he continued, seemingly oblivious to her internal crisis. "Visiting old haunts. Thought I'd stop in for a drink and—" His gaze swept over her face, warm and interested and absolutely, horrifyingly sincere. "—see what Saltmere has to offer these days."

Australia. He'd been in Australia. For how long? And why was he back? And why, in the name of everything holy, was he looking at her like that?

Tamsin felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. Some distant, detached part of her brain registered that she needed to respond, needed to say something that wouldn't give away the fact that she was currently having what felt like a minor stroke behind the bar.

“This is about as exciting as Saltmere gets on a wet Sunday," she heard herself say. Her voice sounded almost normal. “But the beer's good and the view's decent when it's not raining.”

"The view's excellent from where I'm standing."

And there it was—that easy charm, that playful confidence. He'd always been like this, able to make a woman feel like she was the only person in the room. It had got her down the aisle when she was twenty-three, and God help her, some traitorous part of her body was responding to it now.

But he didn't know her. He was flirting with a stranger who happened to be his ex-wife, and Tamsin felt like she was going to either laugh hysterically or be sick, and neither was appropriate for Sunday lunch service.

Then Old Tom's voice boomed across the bar like the last trumpet.

"Christ almighty, Tamsin, your ex-husband just tried to chat you up!"

FAQs

all books in the series …

The Saltmere Chronicles are six interconnected standalone romances. Each book features a different couple with their own complete love story, but returning characters and deepening mythology make them best read in order.