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Some weeks later
Angel parked her car in the car park on the mainland, got out, and locked it.
Then she started walking.
Today, she’d timed it perfectly. There hadn’t been so much traffic on the motorways, and she’d left early, so the sun was high in the sky, which was bright blue and cloudless, a welcome relief after the blustery sleet and snow of the past few weeks.
It was about two hours before low tide, and the causeway to Holy Island was all sand and mud flats, with water glistening in the distance. A flock of pale-bellied geese flew over her head, squawking noisily, and a group of common eider ducks waddled away from her, clucking and fussing at the intrusion.
The road was busy-ish for Lindisfarne, and she kept to the edge, following it until she reached the bridge over the South Low. It was here that she’d been stranded back in December, when she’d climbed up into the refuge hut in the dark. It seemed like so long ago, so much had happened.
Shading her eyes with her hand, she spotted the first post in the sand off to her right, and left the road to walk toward it.
This was the Pilgrim’s Way, a line of poles all the way from the mainland to the town across the sand. In 635, King Oswald had given the island to St. Aidan to establish his monastery, and ever since then it had been a place of pilgrimage. Until 1954, when the road had been built, the poles had been the only indicator of a safe route.
In less than ten minutes, the sound of the traffic behind her had faded away, and it was just her and the curlews, the birds pecking at the mud, looking for crabs.
With her hood over her ears, Angel zipped her coat right up to her chin and shoved her gloved hands deep in the pockets. It might not be snowing, but it was still icy cold. Hal had suggested she wear a pair of walking boots that she didn’t mind getting muddy, and she could see why now. The sand sucked at her feet, and in some places water still pooled. It wasn’t the best time of year to do the walk. But it was a symbolic gesture for her, a transition from her old life to her new one, and Hal hadn’t argued when she’d said she was going to do it.
It was the last day of January. As often happens, the court had dragged its feet over the festive season, and Hal’s decree absolute had finally arrived in the post the day before. He’d rung her on FaceTime, and she’d watched him open it, glance over it, then turn it to show her. “I expect to see you tomorrow,” he’d said, lifting an eyebrow at her, brooking no discussion.
She hadn’t argued. Her car was already half packed with her stuff, and first thing in the morning she’d put in her clothes and last-minute bits, and headed off as the sun came up.
She’d felt so different to the moment she’d driven away from him at the beginning of January. Then, she’d had the horrible thought that she’d never see him again, that she’d never find her magical Brigadoon once it faded into the mists. But Hal had called her every night, and often during the day as well. He’d texted her all the time. And not once had he shown any sign of regret at asking her to stay with him.
And now, he was finally free. Charles and Rebecca had stayed together, and had obviously mended a few fences, because Rebecca had agreed to a clean break, meaning that the financial ties between her and Hal were severed, and he’d no longer have to pay maintenance to her. They’d put the family home up for sale, had accepted the second offer that had come in, and had put in an offer on another larger place in Berwick. It wouldn’t be long before Hal would be getting his share of the proceeds. The only responsibilities he’d have would be toward his kids.
It would be a new start for him too. Angel lifted her hand to shade her eyes again, peering across the mudflats toward the island. She could see a figure in the distance, small at the moment, but coming toward her, a darker shape against the pale mud, following the lines of the poles.
Her heart rate began to pick up, but she continued walking at a steady pace, wanting to hang onto this moment, which felt like Christmas Eve all over again. She’d missed him so much. It was hard to believe that today was the first day of the rest of their lives.
She looked away from the figure for a moment, her gaze skimming across the sand. In her mind, she wrote a brief note that she would copy into her journal later.
Dear Santa,
I just wanted to say thank you for giving me this opportunity. For the first time in my life, I feel that I’m in control of my own happiness. I love Hal, and I can’t wait to begin this new phase. So thank you for putting a Viking in my stocking!
Love you,
Angel.
She smiled, thinking of her father, hoping he would be happy for her, and proud of her for picking herself up after her dark days and forging a new path ahead. Her mother and Lesa had been surprisingly supportive, stating that they hadn’t seen her so happy for a long time. So she was here with their blessing, and she hoped she had her father’s—and Santa’s—too.
Turning her gaze back to the lines of poles, she saw that the figure was clearer now. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans and a blue wax jacket, with a blue beanie pulled over his ears. He strode purposefully, and she picked up her speed, her heart starting to hammer on her ribs. When they were a hundred yards apart, she was striding and out of breath. By the time they were fifty yards away, she was running full pelt, and so was he.
Hal swept her up into his arms, holding her tightly and spinning her around as she cried into his neck.
“Jesus, I’ve missed you,” he murmured, finally lowering her down and taking her face in his hands.
Angel looked up through a blur of tears, smiling as she saw his thick beard, and then his mouth was on hers, and she melted against him, threading her hands into his hair.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she murmured.
He laughed and kissed up her cheeks, over her nose, her eyelids, and back to her mouth. “I love you too.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and they stood there like that for a long time.
Angel drank in the silence, letting the peace of the place calm her racing heart. “I love the thought that I’m treading in the footsteps of thousands of pilgrims who’ve made this journey through the years,” she whispered.
“I know what you mean. I walk it at least once every year.”
She pulled back a little. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Oh?”
She’d been saving this, wanting to surprise him. “You know the package we put together for the National Curriculum?”
It had been her first project. She’d drawn up a proposal for a new website that would feature short podcasts on historical topics suitable for teachers to use in the classroom. It had included a prototype for a kids’ worksheet that included some of Hal’s cartoons, with quizzes that the kids could find the answers to on the website, and then they would input the answers online and be in to win a prize every month.
Hal raised his eyebrows. They’d only submitted it to the Department for Education a few days ago.
“I got an email this morning,” Angel said, so excited she could barely stand still. “They want to meet with us to discuss it further.”
Hal’s face lit up with joy, and he picked her up and spun her around again, both of them laughing.
“That’s amazing,” he said when he finally lowered her down. “Did you arrange a time?”
“I said we’d call back later today and do a conference call. The woman was really nice and said it sounded just like what they were looking for.”
They stared at each other, both unable to believe their luck.
“You really have been my guardian angel.” He tucked a finger under her chin and lifted it so he could kiss her again. “I’m so glad you got stranded in that refuge hut.”
“And I’m so glad you were late that night and stopped to investigate.” She closed her eyes briefly as his mouth moved across hers, butterfly light, but so sensual that it made her ache deep inside. “I want you, Halvar Carlson. I want you today, and tomorrow, and all the days to come. I can’t wait to get back to the cottage and start our new life together.”
“We need to pick up your car,” he murmured.
“Later. I want to complete the pilgrimage first. And then we have some serious sex to catch up on.”
His lips curved up. “The causeway’s not crossable after two-thirty.”
“I can wait for my clothes,” she whispered. “I can’t wait for you.”
“Fair enough.” He took her hand in his, and together they walked toward Holy Island, into the winter sun.
*
Christmas Wishes
Read in any order!
Book 1: Santa’s Secret
Book 2: White-Hot Christmas
Book 3: His Christmas Present
Book 4: If Kisses Were Snowflakes
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If you’ve already read all the Christmas Wishes...
Have you read the Three Wise Men?
Book 1: The Perfect Gift
Book 2: An Ideal Present
Book 3: A Secret Parcel
Excerpt from The Perfect Gift
IT WAS EARLY DECEMBER, supposedly the start of summer in New Zealand, but clouds had covered the sky for weeks, and spring still gripped the country with cold, gray fingers.
Brock’s waterfront apartment was as dark, cool, and unwelcoming as a mortuary. He dropped his keys onto the table by the door and stood with hands on hips for a moment, hanging his head.
Two years ago, he would have been walking into his house on the outskirts of Auckland. He could still picture it—the living room glowing with Christmas lights, Fleur in the kitchen, making mince pies and singing carols, his dog curled up in his basket, soaking up the last dregs of sunlight.
Jeez, how much life could change in twenty-four months. His wife had finally succumbed to the cancer that had tortured her for years, and then—shortly afterward, as if from a broken heart—his dog had also died.
Brock was left with a depressing apartment, a cold bed, and the prospect of a microwave meal to look forward to.
Life truly sucked.
He blew out a breath and massaged the bridge of his nose. He’d fought against the despair that had threatened to overwhelm him for two years, but it continued to cling to him, like a piece of plastic wrap he couldn’t shake off no matter how hard he tried.
Dispiritedly, he walked across to the large windows overlooking the City of Sails. On a Saturday night, the waterfront was always busy, and tonight so near to Christmas was no exception, the streets of Princes Wharf filled with couples and groups on their way out for the evening. Reflections of the red, gold, and blue lights from the restaurants and clubs shimmered on the water like sequins. Half of him wanted to go down and join the throng of partygoers, force himself to shake off his depression. The other half wanted never to set foot out of his apartment again.
Of all nights, he supposed, the anniversary of his wife’s death would be the most likely to break through the iron barrier he’d erected around his heart and emotions. As he wasn’t on call, he was going to allow himself the luxury of a fair portion of a bottle of Islay malt whisky and some melancholic playing of his guitar before he passed out on the sofa. But he wouldn’t succumb to his grief completely. Fleur wouldn’t have wanted him to. For that reason, if nothing else, he wouldn’t give in.
So he switched on a few lamps throughout the apartment to give it a warm glow, changed out of his suit into a sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, put some folksy jazz on his iPod, and stared into the fridge for a whole minute as he decided what to have for dinner.
His heart told him to cook something healthy, while his tired brain demanded he stick a frozen ready meal in the microwave. He compromised by taking out of the freezer a portion of spaghetti Bolognese he’d made a few weeks ago, and reheating it. While he waited for the microwave to ping, he tipped half a bag of prepared salad onto the plate and poured a glass of red wine. After adding the pasta to the plate when it was done, he took it and the glass to his favorite chair by the window.
For a while he just ate, looking down at the lights and the people, letting his mind and body settle after his busy day. The Bolognese wasn’t bad and the wine warmed him through, and he began to relax for the first time that day as the alcohol threaded through his veins.
After a while, he leaned forward and picked up his laptop from the table, balanced it on the arm of the chair, and opened it up.
As chief consultant pediatrician at Auckland Hospital, he always had a batch of emails waiting in his inbox, but as he scanned through the twenty or so messages currently sitting there unread, he decided they could all wait until the next day.
Shoveling another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, he paused the cursor over the icon of a crown on his desktop. He debated whether to load up the forum for We Three Kings, the charity side of the business he ran with his brothers making medical equipment for children. The website had online forums and chat rooms for concerned parents to talk to each other about their sick kids. They could also ask questions of the group of doctors who volunteered spare time to help out. Barely a day went by when Brock didn’t go on there, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy tonight.
At that moment, a message popped up on Skype.
Yo bro. Wassup?
His lips curving, Brock clicked the call button and waited for his brother to answer. The button went green, and Charlie King’s face appeared on the screen. As always, he wore an All Blacks rugby top, and his longish hair looked as if he hadn’t brushed it in a week. Which, knowing Charlie, he probably hadn’t.
“‘Yo bro, wassup?’” Brock quoted. “You sound like a parent singing along to his son’s rap music.”
“I was trying to sound cool,” Charlie said, taking off his glasses to clean them.
“It didn’t work.”
Charlie slid his glasses back on. “There’s always a first time.”
Brock gave a short laugh. Their upper class English mother had been determined her boys would speak “properly.” As a result, although they all had a hint of a Kiwi accent, their diction was more refined than rough. Add the fact that Charlie had no interest in anything to do with popular culture and didn’t even own a TV, and it made the notion of him sounding cool amusing to say the least. Luckily, Brock thought, his brother had about forty-five IQ points on most people, otherwise he would have been a hopeless case.
Charlie took a swig from the bottle of beer in his hand. “What are you up to?”
“About to down half a bottle of a forty-year-old Laphroaig.”
Charlie snorted and opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment Skype pinged again showing another caller. “Hold on,” Brock said, “I’ll add Matt to the call.”
Another window popped up with their younger brother’s face. “Evening,” Matt said. His hair also looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, but Brock knew it would have taken his brother thirty minutes to achieve the same look of casual indifference that Charlie managed with no work at all.
“I’m about to convince Brock to save his forty-year-old Laphroaig until we meet up,” Charlie told him. “He said he’s going to down it himself tonight, but after the first two glasses he won’t remember the rest and it’ll be a waste.”
“Damned straight,” Matt said. “Stick to the ten-year-old and save the forty for Christmas Eve.”
Brock grinned. “Fair enough.” Their father had instilled in them all a love for a good Scotch. Brock was hosting a party on Christmas Eve in a vain attempt to encourage some Christmas spirit in himself, and he guessed it was as good a night as any to share the whisky with his brothers.
“So how’s it going?” Matt settled back, sketchpad in hand, and began to doodle as they talked.
Brock shrugged. “Only just got in.” He checked the clock in the corner of the screen and his eyebrows rose. Ten p.m.? He hadn’t realized it was quite that late. No wonder he was hungry.
“That’s late even for you,” Charlie commented.
“There was a case in emergency that took a while to sort, and then I had to hand over to the night staff.” Because he specialized in respiratory diseases, the emergency staff called Brock whenever children came in with breathing difficulties. Kids always seemed to get sicker in the evenings, so it wasn’t unknown for him to be there until well after dark.
“What are you doing now?” Charlie asked.
“Talking to you.”
Matt gave a wry smile while Charlie rolled his eyes and said, “I meant what are you going to do after you hang up?”
“I told you—down half a bottle of whisky and pass out on the sofa. I’m not on call tonight.”
Charlie ran his hand through his hair, and Matt scratched his cheek with his pencil.
Brock smiled. They were concerned about him but didn’t know what to say. “It’s all right, guys, I’m okay. Yeah, it’s a crappy day, but I’ll get through it.” He decided to change the subject before he started sniveling. “Hey, Charlie, what’s this about Ophelia resigning?”
His brother’s eyes widened. “What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know. Who told you?”
“One of the nurses. She gave her notice yesterday. She’ll be leaving in the New Year.”
Ophelia Clark was in charge of Te Karere Hauora, the department that connected the hospital with the local community, including the volunteers who ran the hospital radio. Brock had a sneaky feeling that Charlie had a thing for her, which was confirmed by the shocked look on Charlie’s face.
“Why’s she leaving?” Brock asked him.
“I’ve no idea.”
“I thought you two talked.”
“We meet at the breakfast cart in the morning. Job satisfaction doesn’t tend to feature when you’re discussing whether to have a blueberry muffin or a bagel.”
“I thought you liked her,” Matt said.
“I do.”
“Have you asked her out?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s married,” Charlie stated.
“Not anymore. They separated about six months ago.”
Charlie’s eyebrows rose so fast that Brock had to hide a smile. “What? How did I not know that?” Charlie asked.
“Everyone was talking about it,” Matt said. “I assumed you knew.”
“Is Summer okay?” Charlie was referring to Ophelia’s daughter, who was also Brock’s patient. The six-year-old girl suffered from Cystic Fibrosis and came into the hospital for intravenous antibiotics and other treatment from time to time.
“She’s living with Ophelia, I think,” Matt said. “I have a feeling she might have jacked the job in so she can focus more on her daughter.”
They were all silent for a moment. Brock himself had given Ophelia all the platitudes after he’d diagnosed Summer—the medical world was progressing all the time, new cures were always being invented, survival rates had quadrupled over the last century... But Matt and Charlie were as aware as he was that the average life expectancy of CF sufferers was only between thirty-seven and fifty in the developed world.
He was hopeful that medical research would continue to advance that figure, though. Charlie had recently requested extra funding from Three Wise Men for a new research project into CF, which Brock had been certain had something to do with Ophelia and her daughter.
“Ask her to the party,” Brock said.
Matt snorted. “It would mean having a conversation with a woman that wasn’t about muffins. Charlie doesn’t do conversation about real stuff.”
“Damn straight,” Charlie said.
Brock rolled his eyes. “You’re six-foot-four, smart, mildly amusing, and rich as Croesus. How come you’re so bad with women?”
“Practice.”
The other two laughed. “Ask her,” Matt said with more kindness than he usually had in his voice. “What have you got to lose?”
“My dignity?”
“What dignity?”
Charlie blew out a breath. “Good point.”
Brock chuckled and promised himself he’d call Charlie in the morning to talk him into it. “What about you?” He directed the question at Matt. “Are you bringing anyone?”
Matt’s expression turned gloomy. “Probably not.”
“Georgia still resistant to your advances?” Brock knew Matt had his eye on the girl who ran the Northland office of their business.
“I don’t know about resistant—more like immune. I’ve tried everything.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as a woman who was impervious to your charms,” Charlie said.
Matt scratched his cheek. “Neither did I.” Of the three of them, Matt was the only one who could have been considered a womanizer, and his girlfriends rarely lasted longer than a few months before he got bored and broke up with them. He’d been after Georgia for ages, but Brock wasn’t sure whether he was truly crazy about her, or if he only wanted her because he couldn’t have her.
“Have you asked her to the party?” Brock queried.
“Yep.”
“What did she say?”
“Nope.”
Brock grinned. “Keep trying.” He sighed. “I thought it would be reassuring to know I won’t be the only sad loser this Christmas, but it makes me kinda sad.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Have you been on the forums this evening?”
“Not yet. Not sure if I have the energy.”
“You should,” Matt said. “Ryan’s in hospital again.”
Brock placed his plate on the nearby table with a clatter and sat up. “Erin’s boy? Shit. What happened?”
“Another asthma attack. Don’t know much more than that—she left a brief message on the asthma thread. I think she was looking for you.”
“Fuck.” Brock leaned back and frowned. About a year ago, he’d started talking to a young mum called Erin on one of the forums. Her son had been hospitalized after having an asthma attack, and she’d wanted to tell them that the revolutionary inhaler they’d developed had saved Ryan’s life.
Through Three Wise Men, the guys developed medical equipment designed with babies and young children in mind. Charlie had invented a more effective asthma inhaler with Brock’s help, and they’d decorated it with the Ward Seven characters from Matt’s series of children’s books. It had proved so popular that Charlie and Brock had since invented a whole range of medical equipment featuring Ward Seven toys, such as tiny animals that could be clipped onto pulse oximeters to encourage the children to sit still while they were being monitored.
Brock had talked to Erin online frequently since then. In the beginning, they’d mostly spoken about ways to manage childhood asthma, but over the months they’d taken to messaging most days. Although their chat had turned a bit more personal, it hadn’t quite stepped over the line to become intimate, but she had a good sense of humor, and he rather liked her.
“Okay. I’ll go on now.” He pulled the computer onto his lap.
“Before you go,” Charlie said, “just checking you’re still on for the Ward Seven December tour tomorrow?”
Brock chuckled. Although the travelling could be tiring, he enjoyed their visits to the children’s hospitals. “Yeah. Waikato for me.”
“The Coromandel for me, and I think Matt’s at Whangarei,” Charlie replied.
“Yep.” Matt nodded. “Talking of which, I’ve been working on a new Ward Seven character. What do you think?” He turned his sketchpad around to show his brothers. He’d drawn a possum with bulging eyes and a dopey smile. “I’m going to call him Squish,” Matt said, presumably referring to the fact that possums tended to be seen only when flattened on the middle of the road.
They both laughed. “Terrific,” Charlie said.
Brock agreed, then said, “Okay, I’m signing off. Speak later.”
“See ya,” Matt replied.
“Stay loose,” Charlie said. “You know where we are if you need us.”
“Yeah. Catch you online.” Brock ended the call.
He double-clicked on the crown icon and loaded up the forum.
The brothers had been relatively wealthy even before they’d opened their business, but they’d been so successful that a few years ago they’d started the We Three Kings Foundation. Through the Foundation they granted wishes for children with life-threatening illnesses, as well as running a twenty-four-hour online help center for parents with sick kids.
Brock often helped out the doctors by answering questions in the online medical chat room, while Matt chatted to parents and sometimes the kids as well in the Ward Seven chat room. All three of them had worked hard to make the Foundation a success, including dressing up as Ward Seven characters and visiting children’s hospitals to deliver vital medical equipment as well as more fun gifts for the patients.
The guys had started using pseudonyms on the forums in an attempt to remain anonymous, although that had flown out of the window when the New Zealand Herald had done a feature on them announcing that the creator of the famous The Toys from Ward Seven books was one of the three brothers behind the We Three Kings Foundation, but they’d continued to use their pseudonyms anyway.
Brock logged in as Balthasar like he always did, and pulled up the front page to see what new threads were there. His eyebrows rose as he saw one titled “Hugs for Balthasar,” created by Charlie under his pseudonym, Caspar. Brock clicked on it and read the opening post.
Today is the second anniversary of the passing of Balthasar’s wife. If anyone wants to send him an e-hug, feel free to do so here—I’m sure he’d appreciate it.
Charlie had finished with a smiley face.
Brock stared at the replies beneath. There were a hundred and seventy two, and it had only been up a few hours. Scrolling down, he read every one, his throat tightening the more he read. The messages were filled with thank yous from grateful parents saying how the new asthma inhaler had saved their children’s lives, as well as from many explaining how the Ward Seven decorated equipment made their kids’ visits to the hospital a much more pleasant experience, to the extent that sometimes the children couldn’t wait to go for their checkups because they got to play with the toys. All the messages sent hugs and kisses and best wishes for him on such a difficult day.
His eyes stung, and he put the laptop to one side and rose to pour himself a whisky—following his brothers’ advice and choosing the ten-year-old malt and not the forty. He took a big swallow and welcomed the burn of it down into his stomach, looking out at the lights on the harbor through blurred eyes. He thought about Fleur and how proud she’d be of him, and then he thought about his sister, Pippa, who’d died of an asthma attack when he was fourteen, and who was the main reason he’d become a doctor.
He’d been lucky enough never to have to worry about money, but money couldn’t buy love, and it couldn’t buy life either.
So much of his life had been about loss. Didn’t he deserve some happiness? He looked down moodily at a couple standing under a street lamp, kissing. What he wouldn’t give to have a woman’s arms around him tonight.
Then he blinked and caught his breath at the thought, guilt flooding him. What a thing to think on the anniversary of Fleur’s death. He’d promised himself he’d never look at another woman again, let alone date or fall in love. For two years he’d been celibate and had barely given women a second thought. He’d loved Fleur with all his heart, and when she’d died, his heart had not only broken but had shattered into so many pieces he’d thought he’d never be able to fit them all back together again.
But for the first time, Brock acknowledged to himself that he was lonely.
You left me, he thought, looking up at the star-studded sky. You left me alone, and I miss you, and I’ve tried to go on by myself, but I’m only human.
Six months after Fleur had died, friends had started inviting him out on dates, but he’d refused every suggestion of meeting someone. He’d grieved for two years. Was it disloyal to feel he was finally ready to move on?
He ached to feel a warm body against him, and to feel the shared bliss of sexual release, but equally it wasn’t just about that. He missed talking to Fleur, telling her his hopes and fears, and just knowing someone was there for him. That kind of love came around only once in a lifetime, but if someone else existed who could provide even a fraction of the joy he’d felt with his first wife, he knew he would be a lucky man.
Glancing at the laptop still resting on the arm of the chair, he thought about Erin. He had no idea what she looked like, where she lived, or much about her private life, apart from that she was a single parent and had a young son. But he liked her, and she made him laugh. Was that so terrible?
He shouldn’t talk to her. Maybe another night he could have a chat, but tonight wouldn’t be right. Would it?
What would Fleur say? He could almost hear her voice, a little impatient, slightly amused. Her boy’s in hospital, Brock. For God’s sake, just talk to the woman.
His lips curved up, and he went back to the chair and pulled the laptop toward him.
Buy Book 1: The Perfect Gift
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Download my Starter Library for FREE!
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Other Books by Serenity Woods
For an up-to-date list of available books, please visit the Books page on my website.
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Christmas Wishes
Book 1: Santa’s Secret
Book 2: White-Hot Christmas
Book 3: His Christmas Present
Book 4: If Kisses Were Snowflakes
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Three Wise Men
Book 1: The Perfect Gift
Book 2: An Ideal Present
Book 3: A Secret Parcel
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Love Comes Later
Book 1: My Christmas Fiancé
Book 2: My New Year Fling
Book 3: My Valentine Seduction
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Serenity’s Standalones
Book 1: Kiss and Make Up
Book 2: One Hot Winter’s Night
Book 3: Set me Free
Book 4: Remember Me
Book 5: Mr. Insatiable
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Like a Boss
Book 1: Taking Charge
Book 2: Taking Over
Book 3: Taking Liberties
Book 4: Taking Time
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Blue Penguin Bay
Book 1: As Deep as the Ocean
Book 2: As Beautiful as the Bay
Book 3: As Timeless as the Sea
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Treats to Tempt You
Book 1: Treat with Caution
Book 2: Treat her Right
Book 3: A Rare Treat
Book 4: Trick or Treat
Book 5: A Festive Treat
Book 5.5: No Way to Treat a Lady (Novella)
Book 6.5: A Taste of Things to Come (Novella)
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Between the Sheets
Book 1: A Secret Between Friends
Book 2: An Ocean Between Us
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Heartfelt
Book 1: Mr. Sinful
Book 2: Mr. Seductive
Book 3: Mr. Sensational
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The Four Seasons
Book 1: Seducing Summer
Book 2: Tempting Autumn
Book 3: Bewitching Winter
Book 4: Persuading Spring
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Sensual Healing
Book 1: An Uncommon Sense
Book 2: Making Sense
Book 3: Talking Sense
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Other Standalones
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About the Author
SERENITY WOODS LIVES in the sub-tropical Northland of New Zealand with her wonderful husband and gorgeous teenage son. She writes hot and sultry contemporary romances with a happy ever after, and would much rather immerse herself in reading or writing romance than do the dusting and ironing, which is why it’s not a great idea to pop round if you have any allergies.
Website: http://www.serenitywoodsromance.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/serenitywoodsromance
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Serenity_Woods
