Mug Shot: Port Isabel Mugs

 

My recent trip to South Padre Island included a stop at Port Isabel, which is just across the bay. I got these cool mugs there. I couldn't decide on blue or red, so I ended up with both. They're very similar to the Broken Yolk mug I wrote about several weeks ago, only larger. I would have liked them all to be the same size, but it is what it is.

Other than cute gift shops, really good seafood, and pirate-themed bars, there doesn't seem to be much to Port Isabel. But they have a lighthouse! I love lighthouses. In fact I have a WIP set in one.

Right now, it's on the schedule for a 2026 release. But we'll see how that goes. For now, here's a look at the cover, blurb and short excerpt...

Selkie

Celtic Legends

https://www.pgforte.com/celtic-legends

When an injured selkie washes up on his beach in the midst of a storm, Ronan McDermott has no choice but to take her into his home. He knows she won’t survive long without his help, so he does what he must to keep her alive until the weather breaks and she can get proper care.

 

Stranded in a world where she doesn’t belong, delirious with pain, and unable to communicate with her captor-slash-caregiver, Meara is storm-tossed in more ways than one. Ronan’s firm manner, his aura of quiet command, centers her. He's a rock she can to cling to.

 

She knows she shouldn’t trust him; he knows he can’t trust himself. But despite the many reasons to keep their distance, they find themselves falling for one another—and ignoring the questions they should be asking: What will happen when Meara's wounds heal and she's strong enough to return to the water? Will she be happy to leave Ronan behind? Will he even allow her go?

Excerpt: 

Gulls swooped and cried in the air above me as I dragged myself farther up the beach, away from the punishing waves. After several moments, I paused for breath and took a look around. The beach where I'd landed was not as secluded nor as welcoming as I would have liked. There was no sheltering cave in which I might find rest, no soft sand to cradle my battered body. The shingle slope rose steeply before me and at its apex, set just beyond the high tide mark, stood a lighthouse with a small stone cottage attached. 

Such structures, of course, meant only one thing. There were humans nearby.

There are tales the mothers tell as they gather each year on the moulting grounds. Stories, good and bad, of the experiences they’d lived through, the men they’d met or mated with here on the dry side. How many times had I listened, spellbound, as they spoke of them—our clever-handed cousins, so frighteningly brutal, so treacherously kind. 

The dwelling was close enough that I could see a light shining in a downstairs window. And I could both see and smell the smoke that curled from the chimney. Even with the crashing surf and the din of the gulls, I was close enough to hear a door slam shut, then the crunch of footsteps on loose stones as someone approached. And, once again, I panicked.

I'll admit to having fantasized, from time to time, about having taken one of the landwalkers as a lover. Who among us hasn’t? But I’d always intended that it stay a fantasy. I'd never actually thought to meet one in the flesh—nor, if I were to be honest, had I ever really wanted to. 

Now, however, it seemed I would have no choice. 

It was still within my power to decide as to which guise to take, however, which face to show him. And with no time to consider all the ramifications, I reached for the magic within me.

The wrenching power caught me by surprise. I may have cried out as I felt my limbs elongate, as my skull contracted, and my cracked ribs shifted and creaked. The pain—there are no words to describe it. I can only assume it was due, at least in part, to my injured state. Because otherwise, surely, one of the mothers would at least have hinted at it. It was so intense I barely noticed as my hide split open and sloughed away leaving me naked. Wet. Cold.