Just a quick legal note: Obviously, this content is subject to copyright and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author. All rights reserved.

So, with that said, Enjoy!

One

Mia

Sometimes I find it difficult to remember the girl I was before I met him.

I do remember when it all started, though. It was the 6th of April, and I could already tell it was going to be a hot summer, as if spring had been skipped altogether. When it got hot in my house, it got bloody hot. I’m talking sauna with the heating on hot; and totally impossible to get a decent night’s sleep.

But it wasn’t the heat that had kept me awake on the night prior to the 6th of April.

The sun was still rising when I checked the time in the top right corner of my MacBook again. It was 6:57 a.m.. How could it only have been two minutes since I last looked? Time seriously drags when you’re wrapped up in anticipation.

Without realising it, I’d been sitting on my hands and bobbing my knees. Usually, I’m quite a calm person, but that morning, I couldn’t sit still. It was only when the pins and needles started creeping through my fingertips that I noticed I’d been sitting on my hands for way too long.

6:58 a.m.

Come on, come on…

I tried drumming my fingers on my desk to see if that helped, but then stopped almost immediately. Too irritating. Back under my legs they went. The pins and needles would have to do.

6:59 a.m.

I was counting the seconds now. All the hard work, the late nights, the year I had to take off, and the chaos of stop-start studying through the grief of Dad… everything had led to this.

I clicked the sync button on my Mail app again and again. Nothing. But then again, it was still 6:59.

How was it still six-bloody-fifty-nine?

At long last, the little digital clock in the corner of the screen flicked to 7:00 a.m. And there it was, right on cue. A new email. I felt my heart begin to dance around my chest as weird prickles of heat began to wander up my spine.

I glanced at the sender.

Please don’t be Starbucks. Or Amazon trying to lure me into an offer.

Clicking unsubscribe never seemed to work.

But, thankfully, it was nothing like that. It was from them. Oxford University.

I narrowed my eyes at the subject, just to be sure the waiting hadn’t driven me completely mad. It read: Your application to Oxford University.

My thumb nearly shattered the trackpad as I clicked. I didn’t care. If I broke my laptop, I’d buy a new one. A treat to celebrate starting uni – student loans and all that.

I started to read, whispering each word. I needed to hear it out loud to believe it.

Dear Miss Marsh,

Thank you for your application to Oxford University. After much consideration, it is with regret that, on this occasion, your application to study English Language and Literature BA (Hons) has been unsuccessful. We know this may come as a disappointment and hope that…

With regret? Unsuccessful?!

I stopped reading, in favour of staring blankly at the screen, as if another email was going to miraculously pop up saying: ‘Oh, we’re so sorry, Mia. That was a mistake… We’d love for you to come and study English at Oxford…’

I felt my entire body sink as I re-read the last line over and over, hoping by some miracle it would change.

Bugger.

I knew Oxford was a long shot, but after everything – the second stage interview, the feedback, the endless refining of my personal statement – I really thought I had a shot. I really did. How could I have been so stupid? So bloody naïve? Yeah, Mum had been my cheerleader, but the thought of applying to Oxford had always scared the shit out of me. I didn’t have a posh accent or a million quid in spending money for starters.

I still had Birmingham as my second choice. Birmingham. That decision was due next week, via the post. Which said a lot really. But the course wasn’t the one I wanted. I had no desire to do a general creative writing course, just because that was the ‘closest thing they could offer’. Oxford had always been the dream. The holy grail.

Maybe that was why I didn’t get in. Because it was exactly that: a dream. A fantasy. I may as well have put bloody Hogwarts down as my second choice. I probably stood the same chance of getting in. I felt like I was going to be stuck there for the rest of my life: that tiny cove on the edge of a small village in Cornwall, overlooking the sea. I know how that sounds – like perfection. And it was lovely, I can’t deny it. I knew I was in no position to complain. But apart from my best friend, Kat, and a few others (Patrick, of course), Penlowen was the sort of place people came to when they were at the end of their careers, not the beginning. To me, it felt like that tiny village was a bubble, cut off from the rest of the world.

It’s weird, the little details which stick with you. I still remember how gentle the waves outside my bedroom window were that morning. It was the only sound to break the silence that comes with a massive rejection. The sea being calm was unusual for April. We often got sun during the day, and it was usually nice and warm by noon. But the morning breeze often made the waves quite choppy. Usually my idea of perfect. But that morning the sea was unbearably calm, meaning I couldn’t even surf off my frustration. I had a paddleboard – naturally – but there was something extra lonely about paddling out to sea by myself. That was always mine and Dad’s thing.

Almost like clockwork, as soon as I slammed my laptop shut, my phone began to buzz.

Oh God. It was Mum. No doubt phoning to find out if I got in. She wanted me to go more than I did.

I really didn’t want to answer, like really didn’t want to answer. But if I didn’t, I knew she would only start flapping. Even though I had turned twenty-one last September, this was one of the first times I had been left alone in the house for more than a couple of days. People in Penlowen didn’t tend to leave, unless they were tourists there for the weekend, of course. And to be fair to Mum, when your back garden was the sea, and your daughter had a habit of diving into it on a whim, not picking up the phone was always bound to spark an ounce of concern.

So, reluctantly, I tapped the green button and pressed the phone to my ear.

‘Morning, Mum.’

‘Come on then! How did it go?’ she squeaked. Her voice was devastatingly bright with anticipation. ‘Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging! I’ve barely slept!’

You and me both, Mum.

‘Oh, um… well, I’m not sure yet. People on Twitter are saying the university’s having technical difficulties sending the emails out or something. Would you believe it?’

That was the killer question: would she believe it?

I’m not proud of lying. But I guess I didn’t want to tell her over the phone. She would just start saying Oxford wasn’t all that anyway, probably in some desperate attempt to make me feel better. Or worse, she might have come home early. And I couldn’t have that. This week away was good for her. Like I said, Penlowen wasn’t the kind of place people tended to venture from often. And because of me and my stupidity, Mum had been too worried to leave my side.

‘Gosh, they like to make us sweat, don’t they? You’ll let me know as soon as there’s any news, won’t you?’

I swallowed. ‘Yep. Sure will. So, how’s London? Is the book going well?’

Mum was off on a writing retreat, trying to (in her words) ‘rediscover herself as an author’. Which was funny, really, considering Deborah Marsh had spent the last decade churning out twelve bestsellers and turning PI Maisie Penrose into a household name. I mean, jeez… they were even making a bloody TV series based on her books now. But that was Mum. Always chasing the feeling that the next book might finally prove to her that she was good enough. Talk about being the only person who couldn’t see it.

She always used to say: ‘Looking back could only get you so far, and often not far enough.’ I had never been entirely sure what she meant by that. She had this way of being cryptic and blunt at the same time. Like when she sat me down one random Tuesday the previous summer after I had come in from a surf, and told me she wasn’t my biological mother. And that Dad wasn’t my biological father, either. Just like that. No cup of tea and a biscuit to help soften the blow. Jesus, she didn’t even sit me down first, or let me get dry. Just straight out with it: ‘I’m not your real mum, Mia.’

I couldn’t believe it. I had a similar lump in my throat then to the one I had now; chatting with Mum and acting as if everything was fine, even though the truth was my world had begun to spin all around me.

‘We wanted to tell you together,’ she’d said. ‘But with Dad’s cancer, we couldn’t. He didn’t want to risk you looking at him differently in his final weeks.’

Then came the rest: basically that I was adopted from birth. My birth mother was a young girl who had got pregnant by mistake and couldn’t afford to raise a baby. Mum couldn’t have kids due to some medical reason she didn’t disclose (and I didn’t ask), and Dad didn’t want to go down the donor route. So, adoption was their only option. Fair enough, I suppose. And I can’t exactly say I had a bad childhood. Sure, it was lonely at times, but Mum and Dad were my best friends. It was us, the three of us (four if you include Pebble), happy in our own little bubble. That was until the bastard that calls itself cancer came along.

Mum didn’t say much more about my birth parents. And to be fair, I didn’t seek to find out. I didn’t want to know. I was too wrapped up in what, at the time, felt like losing my dad all over again.

It took a while, but eventually, I adjusted to the new normal. So much had changed, but one thing remained the same: sure, Mum might not have given birth to me, but she was still my mum. And Dad was still Dad. Always would be. And that was okay. Blood wasn’t everything.

‘The book is going… okay,’ she said now, snapping me back. ‘I mean, I’ve barely written anything. I’m just heading out for a walk down The Mall. Try and get some fresh inspiration, you know? I thought it would be the romance aspect that would trip me up, but turns out, it’s the setting. I’ve never written anything set in a city before. I need to experience it. Soak it up. It’s always been Cornwall this, Cornwall that…’

It’s true. All of Mum’s books were set around Cornwall.

‘Well, there is that one set in Devon,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘Oh yeah, all three chapters of it. How adventurous of me!’

‘Well, it hasn’t done you too badly, has it?’

‘True,’ she said. ‘Thanks, good talk as always, boss.’

‘You’re very welcome. My invoice will be in the post.’

‘Ha! You wish. Have you taken your tablets this morning?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay, well it’s only because I—’

‘I know, Mum. Thanks.’

‘Look, love, I want to beat the morning commute – you wouldn’t believe how many people there are in this city – so I’m heading out, but I’ll have my phone. Call me the second you hear anything, promise? If I don’t answer it’s probably because I’m on the tube, but keep trying.’

I pressed my lips together. ‘Sure, will do, Mum.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a promise…’

‘Fine. I promise. Now go… you don’t want to miss the changing of the guards or whatever it is they do there. I’ll be fine.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘And hey, don’t sound so worried. You smashed the first stage, and your application was brilliant. You’ll get in. I just know it!’

I felt an involuntary tremor ripple through my bottom lip. In some ways, I wished I had told her there and then. It was definitely going to be worse now.

‘Fingers crossed,’ I managed.

‘I love you, sweetheart.’

‘I love you too, Mum.’

‘Alright, gotta dash… bye!’

I heard her kiss the phone. And with that, she was gone.

I tossed my phone onto my bed and pushed myself back from my desk, steering my office chair towards the little round window to the side of my wardrobe. It was a small house. Just an oversized beach hut, really. My room was upstairs, along with the small en suite – and there was Mum’s room down the hall. The kitchen and living room were downstairs. And that was about it. About ninety percent of the place was made of wood, mostly painted white. It was a bugger to keep on top of. Every time we patched up a chip, another one seemed to reveal itself. But I loved it. And so did Mum. And being there upon receiving such shit news sort of cushioned the blow of rejection in a way.

I peered down at the sea. Yep. Still too calm for surfing. That was what I usually did when things got tough: leave my problems on the beach whilst I rode the waves. But I wasn’t going to let a calm tide stop me. No sense in moping around when the world was going to continue spinning anyway. You either go with it or get off. I’d seriously contemplated both. Going with it seemed to be the only way.

So, I got up and dashed downstairs. Pebble, our fluffy canine resident, was still asleep in her bed by the back door. Best not to wake her. The last thing I needed was a moody poodle demanding breakfast.

I headed out through the kitchen door without so much as a glance at the coffee machine. My bare feet landed on the warm decking, and I rushed across it, reluctantly leaving my surfboard leaning against the shed before I took the cobbled steps down to the beach. That was what I loved about our house: within thirty seconds of stepping outside, I was greeted by the feeling of fresh warmth of sand between my toes. I can’t understand people who complain about sand; how soft and soothing it feels against the skin.

What’s there not to love?

I hurried to the shoreline, my feet sinking deeper the closer I got. Sea water rushed around my toes, slightly nippy, sure, but it washed away the sting of rejection all the same.

Well… if only.

I didn’t know where this sudden surge of adrenaline had come from, but my brain had clearly snapped into ‘fuck it’ mode without me having so much of a say in the matter.

One of the best things about living in a house that overlooked a small, hidden beach, tucked away in a cove, was that, for the most part, no one else knew it was there. Especially not the tourists, who would soon be swarming the village when the school summer holidays began, no doubt. So essentially, I had my own private beach. And yes, it was my beach. Well, mine and Mum’s. Sure, the odd group of kids might stumble down there at night, but they were usually chased off by Mum wielding a tea towel like it was a lethal weapon. I heard somewhere that she was known amongst the few teenagers in Penlowen as the ‘crazy writer lady’. That was fine. It deterred them, and suited us to the ground.

I looked around. As I said, practically a private beach. So, fuck it mode in full force, I pulled my pyjama top over my head and tossed it over my shoulder – not giving two shits as to where it landed. As the light breeze brushed my bare chest, a sudden thrill washed over me. A sense of empowerment. It was a bit weird… standing there without a top on, but I quite liked it. So without further ado, I slipped off my shorts and flicked them away with my foot, leaving me only in my birthday suit and my dad’s handmade shell necklace.

Now I was running into the sea, laughing with every step.

Fuck it.

Before I knew it, the water was up to my neck. My whole body went from comfortably warm to what I could only describe as bloody damn freezing. Enough to make my teeth chatter. I reminded myself I would have to thank my wetsuit for all of its hard work in keeping me warm next time I wore it (the secret is to wee).

My breaths came short. At first, I began to tread water, which probably looked more like I was struggling to doggy paddle, before I settled into a proper swim. I set my sights on the clusters of rocks ahead, where the two sides of the cove almost met in the middle, creating a narrow opening to the rest of the sea. I dipped my head under the water and began to swim, each stroke delivering its own surge of adrenaline.

Eventually, I found my rhythm, and my swimming became more structured, like I actually knew what I was doing. Living in Penlowen, swimming was almost second nature, like walking. Dad used to say I could paddle before I could walk… and surf before I could ride a bike.

I had no problems believing that.

I stopped and peered up, treading water. The water was deep now; I could almost reach out and pat the rocks. I was at the edge of the cove, and the water felt nice. Still a bit nippy in certain places, which I won’t disclose, but mostly… nice. I looked back at our small house, only a short distance away, and thought: yeah, things could be worse. I glanced up at the rocks beside me. It was the same spot where we scattered Dad’s ashes, and I reminded myself that I’ve fought harder battles and lived to tell the tale. Even if I was scarred as a result.

I ducked my head under and pressed my feet against one of the rocks below the surface, my toes brushing the smooth algae. I pushed off and started to swim back, opting for breaststroke this time.

Within minutes, I felt the seabed brush my knees. When I lifted my head out of the water, our small house on the edge of the cliff looked considerably larger.

Before I knew it, the water was shallow again, so I stood up and patted myself down. I must have drifted, because my pyjamas weren’t on the shore in front of me. Maybe the current was stronger than I thought that morning.

I shaded my eyes and scanned the beach, trying to spot them, but I couldn’t find them anywhere.

And that was when every muscle in my body tensed at the sound of a deep voice:

‘Morning!’

The Girl Who Lives By The Sea will be available from 26/06/26 – and you can pre-order today!

The audiobook will be narrated by the incredibly talented Katy Brixey, who is busy breathing life into Piper, Jack, Martha, and Jonathan, as well as every unexpected turn in the story. Her voice really nails the heart of the book: the suspense, the tension, the dark secrets… I can’t wait to share can’t wait for you to hear the full version when it’s released.

The audiobook will be coming to Audible, Amazon and the iOS Books App very soon!

But until then, here’s a sneak preview:

It’s been a little while since I last wrote a love story, and returning to the genre felt a overwhelming at first, but this book has been such a great project start to finish, and I can’t wait for you to meet Mia and Luke.

Set in a quiet Cornish cove, The Girl Who Lives By The Sea is the story of Mia Marsh, who’s spent her whole life tucked away in a sea-facing house filled with memories and salt air. With her mum away on a writing retreat and her university dreams hanging in the balance, Mia’s summer takes an unexpected turn when an email changes everything, and a stranger on the beach changes even more.

Luke Watson didn’t come to Cornwall looking for love. He came searching for answers about a mother he’s never met but can’t forget. But from the moment he meets Mia, something begins to shift. What starts as curiosity turns into connection, and as the summer unfolds, both are forced to face the secrets they’ve been keeping, and the truth that could change everything.

It’s a love story, yes, but it’s also about the truth, family, and finding one’s place in the world. It’s about how the past seems always to find its way, washing back up on shore, and how sometimes the people we least expect may end up saving us.

Thank you, as always, for reading, supporting, and sharing my stories. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

The Girl Who Lives By The Sea will be available June 2026, and I can’t wait for you to dive in.

When One Step Closer came out last month, I had no idea what to expect. You put a book out there and just hope it finds a few people who’ll love it. But to see over 5,000 orders already, and to watch it top the charts in the US, Australia, and Canada…I’m still trying to take it all in.

To everyone who’s downloaded, read, reviewed, or even just recommended the book to a friend. Thank you. Truly. Every message, every comment, every review has meant more than I can say.

I can’t wait to share what’s coming next. If this first month has shown me anything, it’s how incredible this community of readers really is.

Thank you for making One Step Closer such a memorable experience.

When I first released the book, I had no idea how readers would respond. I just wanted to tell a story that kept people guessing. A tense, emotional thriller about guilt, secrets, and the fine line between right and wrong. To see it now sitting at the top of the charts feels completely surreal.

I’ve been blown away by the messages, reviews, and support over the past few days. Every download, every share, every bit of feedback means the world. It’s not just my book that’s reached this milestone. It’s ours.

If you haven’t read One Step Closer yet, it’s still free to download for a limited time. So if you love twisty psychological suspense, now’s the perfect chance to dive in:

Click Here to get your copy!

Thank you again to everyone who’s made this possible. This little book has taken a huge step forward, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

Alex

This book has been two years in the making, and I can’t wait for you to meet the characters and get caught up in the twists, turns, and dark secrets that drive the story forward. If you enjoy tense, fast-paced thrillers that keep you turning the pages late into the night, I think this one will be right up your street.

The official release date is 03/10/2025, but you can reserve your copy in advance so it’s ready to land on your device the moment it launches.

PRE ORDER YOUR COPY HERE!

Thanks as always for your support. It means the world to me.

I can’t wait to hear what you think of One Step Closer!

It’s Here! My New Novel Nineteen Minutes to Midnight Is Out Today!

Today marks the official release of Nineteen Minutes to Midnight – a story I’ve poured heart, soul, and many sleepless nights into. This book is unlike anything I’ve written before. It blends mystery, time travel, supernatural suspense, and a touch of historical intrigue into a twist-filled ride I can’t wait for you to experience.

Set in the quiet village of Mooreview, the story begins when high schooler Jerome Adewale moves into a crumbling Georgian house on the edge of town. But this house holds secrets – including an attic-bound grandfather clock that mysteriously appears each night at nineteen minutes to midnight. When the clock strikes, it doesn’t just tell time…it transports Jerome to the 1800s.

There, he meets Arabella Wentworth, a brilliant poet from a bygone era – a woman both haunted and hunted by a terrifying entity known only as The Shadow Man. With his sharp-witted new friends Samantha and Olly, Jerome must face dangers that transcend centuries. Together, they unearth buried secrets, challenge fate itself, and learn that the past is never as still as it seems.

Expect eerie encounters, twisting timelines, and moments that will make your heart race and your mind reel.

Click here to find out more

Thank you to everyone who continues to read, share, and support my stories. You make this journey worth it!

In the quiet English countryside, time is about to unravel.

It begins with a mystery.

In 1904, Lady Arabella Wentworth vanished without a trace. A year later, her body was found. No one knows what happened in that missing year—until now.

High-school student Jerome Adewale never asked for any of this. Moving into a grand old house at the edge of a forgotten village felt like the end of everything—until the strange grandfather clock began to chime in the attic at exactly nineteen minutes to midnight.

Each night, at the same time, the clock appears. Each night, it opens a portal to the past—specifically, to the final days of the 1800s.

There, Jerome meets Arabella Wentworth, a brilliant young poet plagued by an otherworldly force she calls The Shadow Man. She’s more than a ghost of history—she’s real, and her fate is tied to something far greater than either of them understands.

As the boundaries of time begin to fracture, Jerome, along with his sharp-witted friend Samantha and loyal sidekick Olly, must race against time. To save Arabella. To confront the Shadow Man. To stop time itself from tearing apart.

This is not just a story about the past—it’s a fight for the future.

Two Books. Back-to-Back.

Nineteen Minutes to Midnight (Part One)

Gone Midnight (Part Two)

Both books are coming soon in a major two-part release that will sweep readers into a world of secrets, shadows, and time travel. With unforgettable characters, haunting mysteries, and heart-racing twists, this is a story that refuses to be forgotten.

Whether you’re a fan of historical fiction, YA fantasy, or epic time-travel adventures, this is your next obsession.

Are you ready to step through the clock?

What’s It About?

When high schooler Jerome Adewale moves into a centuries-old house on the edge of a quiet village, he’s certain life as he knows it is over. That is, until he stumbles upon something impossible—a grandfather clock that appears in the attic each night at exactly nineteen minutes to midnight.

This isn’t just any old clock. It’s a portal to the past, and through it, Jerome meets Arabella Wentworth, a poet from the 1800s trapped in a world of mystery and fear. Arabella is haunted—both figuratively and literally—by a terrifying entity known as The Shadow Man.

With his new friends, Samantha and Olly, Jerome embarks on a thrilling adventure through time, uncovering dark secrets, dodging unseen dangers, and discovering that the past isn’t as fixed as it seems. But some forces don’t take kindly to meddling with history, and if Jerome isn’t careful, he might just shatter time itself.

Why This Book is My Biggest Yet

I’ve always loved a good mystery, but Nineteen Minutes to Midnight takes things to a whole new level. This book is packed with eerie folklore, a deep and twisting time-travel plot, and characters who stole my heart as I wrote them (including one particularly terrifying villain). It’s a story about friendship, courage, and what happens when the past and future collide in ways no one could predict.

When Can You Get Your Hands on It?

The countdown has begun! I’ll be announcing the official release date very soon, so watch this space. In the meantime, keep an eye out for sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes details, and maybe even a few surprises along the way.

If you love stories filled with mystery, adventure, and a touch of the supernatural, Nineteen Minutes to Midnight is for you. I can’t wait for you all to read it.

Are you ready to step through the clock?

With its three (wow) year anniversary just around the corner (March, 3rd) and Valentine’s day on the horizon, I am delighted to announce a new edition of After all these years, is now available.

This is the most unique book in my collection—and is still one of my favourites!

A totally addictive, laugh-out-loud, will-they-won’t-they YA romance that’s perfect for cosy evenings and hopeless romantics. Packed with quirky characters, heartwarming moments, and all the feels, this is one story you won’t want to put down.

Soulmates… are they always destined to be together?

Aaron and Kayla have been inseparable since they were kids. For Aaron, Kayla has been his world—and the love of his life—since he was eight years old. For Kayla, it’s complicated. She adores Aaron, but juggling high school drama, her social life, and a boyfriend like Brett Thompson—the most popular guy in Springtane—doesn’t leave much room for her nerdy best friend.

Despite the distance that popularity, parties, and peer pressure create, Aaron remains Kayla’s rock, the one person she can always count on. But when college comes knocking, everything changes. With Aaron heading to Houston and Kayla staying in California, the miles between them feel impossible to bridge.

Will Aaron and Kayla’s bond survive the growing distance between them? Or will life’s twists and turns pull these soulmates apart for good?

You can order a copy of this new edition by clicking here!