Your Avelrow shelf.

Celebrity Romance

After They Call Cut

Caoimhe Kildare

THE LAST SCENE The last thing Maeve Callaghan ever said as Eilidh Kerr was not written in the script. It was not supposed to be said at all. The script had given her silence. After fourteen years, eight seasons, three wars, two fictional children buried and four fictional grandchildren born, a shipwreck, a hanging narrowly avoided, one revolution, a fever that had taken six weeks to film and roughly ten minutes to survive on screen, and more mud than any actress should reasonably be expected to swallow for art, Eilidh Kerr’s final instruction was simple.

Sports Romance

After the Match

Nessa Calder

Physiotherapist and single mother Aoife Byrne has built a careful life around work, community and her fierce nine-year-old daughter. When football star Eoin Daly returns home for a testimonial season, the boy she once loved walks back into the leisure centre carrying an injured knee, a changed life and the history neither of them has quite buried. As school visits, family loyalties and the pressure of public attention pull them closer, Aoife and Eoin must decide whether a second chance can be built from something quieter than grand gestures: trust, ordinary reliability, and the courage to stay after the match is over.

Space Opera

Asteriad

Cael Ardmore

the Asteriad Sequence · Book 1

Twelve years before every gate in human space learned her voice, Orla Kavanagh stood beneath Gate Twelve with a paper star in her pocket and a lie on her departure record. The lie was small enough to pass beneath notice. Archive tender maintenance. Three-person crew. Routine reciprocal inspection between Cork Ring and Vespera. Return window: four hours. Cargo: calibration glass, lattice probes, two sealed boxes of authenticated civic records, one spare pressure seal, and nothing that could inconvenience the Concord.

Epic Fantasy

The Bloodstar Heir

Aisling Vire

THE BOY BENEATH THE RED TIDE Ciaran Daire had learned, long before he had the height to reach a latch, that a man could survive almost anything if he kept his hands busy. That morning, his hands were in a barrel of brine up to the wrist. The salt bit into the old cracks across his knuckles, found the raw place under his thumbnail, and stung there with the private cheer of something delighted to be useful.