Title: The Lost Selkie
Author: Eule Grey
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 04/22/2025
Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: Female/Female
Length: 30500
Genre: Paranormal, British, butch/femme, age difference, demisexual, age gap, one bed, selkies, midsummer/solstice, ancient mystery, sweet, friends to lovers, performance arts, mythical creatures, HEA
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Description
Esther is excited to start a new job on a beach TV shoot. Sure, maybe it is strange how the ocean seeps in overnight with weird sea snails everywhere, but the technical issues are down to science, not myths. As an electrician, Esther understands facts. If only women were so simple.
In her daydreams, Esther’s a passionate woman. Who cares if she lacks the courage for the real thing? And, yeah, maybe a girlfriend is better than a fantasy, but who’d put up with Esther? Her shyness keeps her from socialising, so it’s a shock when she ends up sharing a bed with the star of the show.
Beautiful, gentle Layla becomes fascinated by a mythical selkie who guides lesbians to physical love. If only! Layla craves a real woman who will wait for sex until they’re ready for intimacy…a strong, kind woman exactly like Esther.
Midsummer magic, faulty wiring, sexual awakenings, an ancient diary. Everyone knows about the lost selkie with a broken heart: she may only return to the sea once she finds her missing fur. Can Esther fix the set’s electrical issues and reunite the selkie with her lost love? Will the TV show ever be ready to broadcast? And, most importantly, can Esther and Layla come together on the beach and discover what matters most?
Pretty Selkie from the sea,
Can’t you spare a kiss for me?
Excerpt
The Lost Selkie
Eule Grey © 2025
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
On a chilly morning, my sister drove me to the train station and pushed me out of the car. “Why? It’s not too late to change your mind.”
I stumbled into the dank car park, brandishing my precious toolbox like a shield to protect me from Becka’s fierce questions and whatever else lay ahead.
Somehow, I resisted the overwhelming urge to retreat into my sister’s warm car and admit she was right about Scarborough being a foolish idea even though I was terrified. “I’m going to be a TV electrician in Yorkshire. It’ll be great!”
My brave words hid a mountain of worries. Nine months, five hours ago, the soap opera director I’d served for twenty years had delivered the bombshell: “We don’t need old-style electricians anymore. Have a break while you think about what to do next. We’ve gotten old, Esther. AI has taken our place.”
Gotten old? I was forty, not one hundred. Romance scenes were my beating heart—first kiss, illicit liaisons, gangster couples, later life snogs—every storyline sustained me, however implausible. True, my own love life was non-existent, but why worry about what I couldn’t change? Women never paid me much attention anyway. To them, I was boring Esther Sparks; to actors, I was the leccy queen. Sparkie—Can you help me with this? Where’s Sparks? Perfect! No AI electrician would fix the wiring with as much love or dedication as me. They never could.
The advert for Scarborough became a glimmer of hope in a sea of despair, a chance to reignite the spark in my life.
Wanted! TV electrician for haunted hotel set in Scarborough. Lodging and board. Free screwdriver. Must be comfortable around snails and actresses.
I could have sworn my heart had stopped beating. Scarborough. Actresses. All I remembered from a childhood day trip to Yorkshire was beautiful seals peering from beneath the waves and vinegary fish and chips.
The memory was enough. Surely, on a beach set, there’d be at least one romantic plot with lines I could fall in love with and dream about.
I emailed my CV within minutes. A job offer arrived three hours later, train ticket attached. ‘Dear Ms Sparks, come immediately. We need you.’
Needed me… My trusty toolbox and I were packed within ten minutes. I could have cried with relief, envisaging a sunny set filled with laughing actresses and dodgy electrics. Esther Sparks was ready to help the actresses shine.
If beneath my excitement, an uneasy inner voice nipped at my consciousness—is this all there is to my life?—I ignored it and the gaping maw where a girlfriend and social life should’ve been. Down the hatch and switch on the lights had always been my motto. Why change now?
Unfortunately, my sister was anything but enthusiastic about my new venture. She’d spitefully tugged my hair, growling at passing trains as if they were naughty children. “Why can’t you be an adult? Scarborough is on the other side of the world. You won’t find happiness or a woman to love you there!”
A woman to love me? I probably went redder than a strawberry while my sister readied herself for another round.
I ignored Becka’s cat-bum expression and the nasty acidic acknowledgement in my throat that sis was right. “It’ll be great. Scarborough is only a few hours drive from Ramsgate, so stop nagging.”
She snatched up my suitcase. “Who are you kidding? It’ll be shit. A haunted hotel, for god’s sake. And on your own! Why don’t you get an ordinary job like everyone else—maybe in London? The whole thing is probably a scam.” She booted my toolbox for emphasis. “Stop idolising others and find a life of your own. Fancy-arsed actors who take advantage of your kind nature won’t love you how you deserve. I could give them a good slap.”
Awch.
Cruel, but not new. She’d been saying the same thing for years. I loved my sister dearly, though she could wind me up like nobody else. Yes, she’d brought me dinner when I was too sad to leave bed. I was grateful. But. Becka’s life had been a champagne glass of friends, exams, and jobs, whereas mine, more of a chipped, empty mug.
It was time to return to the safe world of soap opera romances. What hope did someone like me have of finding love elsewhere? Maybe the gaping absence inside me couldn’t be filled by yet another TV plotline, but you couldn’t have everything.
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Meet the Author
Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them!
She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night!
For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.
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