Chapter 1
Harley.
The Tide House is busy today. Too busy.
Sure, working in a restaurant on the promenade of a popular beach was never going to have me humming in the corner with nothing to do, but today is something else. It isn't even half term, just a random day in early May.
I brush the back of my hand across my forehead and wander into the kitchen.
"Table seven have been waiting a while. Is their order nearly done?" I ask, directing the question at the kitchen team—specifically my boss, Clea Han, our head chef and the owner of the restaurant.
"It'll come when it comes, Harley," Clea sighs.
Helpful.
It's fine, she's really short staffed today.
I scoop up a couple of finished plates and weave my way back through the restaurant. It isn't huge by any means. Just a small, independent place Clea bought a few years ago.
She's kind of my idol, really.
She's only four years older than me, yet somehow she's already built this whole life for herself. A successful restaurant, a team that loves working for her, a reputation around town.
Meanwhile, my whole life seems to consist of just trying not to drop someone's fish and chips.
I only moved to Daffodil Bay a month ago, so it was pretty nice of her to give me a chance. Family dramas had left me with a patchy work history, and I was getting tired of employers looking at the gaps on my CV as though I'd spent those years sat around doing nothing.
As if it was my fault I'd spent them putting other people before my career.
Once all the family stuff finally reached its conclusion, I realised I didn't actually have much going for me.
As I wander between the tables, I find myself looking at people my own age. Most of them have children, wedding rings, proper jobs with professional-looking outfits.
Then again...
That's why I moved to Daffodil Bay, isn't it?
If I had nothing else, at least I had miles of beach to run along whenever I wanted. I had sunsets that made me stop walking just to stare at them.
There's more to life than a perfect career. Or at least I'm trying very hard to believe there is.
I stop beside one of the tables, notebook at the ready, and immediately recognise the faces looking back at me.
I love our regulars. I've only known them for a few weeks, yet it already feels like they're my friends.
"Heya, you three," I grin. "Let me guess... two fish and chips and a chicken nugget meal for your little boss?"
The couple exchange a glance before nodding in unison. Their daughter sits kicking her legs and looking up at me.
"See?" I say, pointing at them. "I've got an excellent memory. Don't ask me where I left my phone five minutes ago, though."
They laugh.
"That's exactly why we come here," the woman says. "We always know the customer service will be second to none."
I can't help but blush.
"Aw." I notice Clea take some food to the table next to theirs, "you're making me look good in front of my boss." I lower my voice conspiratorially. "Keep talking. She might finally give me a pay rise.”
They laugh again. I return to professional mode.
"As you can probably tell, we're a little busier than usual today, so your food might take a bit longer. One second..."
I duck behind the counter and grab a colouring book and a packet of felt-tip pens before placing them in front of their little girl, Poppy.
"There you go. Your very important job is to make this prettier than anything I could draw."
Poppy beams.
Before her parents can thank me, the bell above the pass pings and someone from the next table catches my eye.
“Sorry to be a pain," the man says, "but do you know how much longer our food will be?"
"I'm so sorry," I say, already reaching for the plates waiting at the pass. "It's on its way now."
Once it reaches half past two, the lunch rush finally starts to die down. I let out a long breath and stare through the large glass windows at the sea.
A reminder that working in a restaurant job is worth it if it means I get to live here.
"Harls, stop working. You're supposed to be on your break now," Clea says, appearing behind me.
I glance down at the watch on my wrist and laugh quietly.
"I didn't even realise. Explains why my feet feel like they're about to fall off."
Clea takes a seat at one of the empty tables and I sit opposite her. We usually spend our breaks together. She's just one of those people who oozes warmth, the kind who makes you feel better just by being around her.
As a person, anyway.
As a boss she can be hard work, but that's restaurant work for you. It's not as easy as we have to make it look.
"You'll never guess who I saw earlier," the woman at the table beside us says to her friend.
"Who?"
"Ben Dorset."
"The Formula One guy?"
"Yeah! I was star-struck. I've no idea what he's doing in Daffodil Bay."
"I thought he had brain damage or something."
"I think the media said he got better... but who knows."
“Harley!"
Clea's voice snaps me out of my eavesdropping. Multi-tasking is apparently not my speciality today.
"Sorry, what did you say?" I ask.
"I was thinking about hiring a couple more waitresses before the summer rush. I wanted to know what you thought."
I shrug. It isn't my decision. I've only been here a month. Admittedly, Clea has started talking to me as though I'm her equal rather than her very inexperienced member of staff, but even so.
"Well, it's completely up to you. You own the place," I remind her. "Although my feet would definitely appreciate the extra help, if you're offering."
Clea nods.
“Maybe you could help me interview them?"
I blink.
"Me? I've only been here a month. I'm not exactly qualified."
She smiles softly.
"I know." Her words aren't dismissive. They're reassuring. "But I trust your judgement. Harley, you've been a star ever since I hired you. I've never had a member of staff pick everything up so quickly. The staff love you. The customers love you..."
She grins.
"...I love you."
Heat creeps into my cheeks. It's funny, really, having a manager who believes in you more than you believe in yourself.
"If you really want my help..." I smile. "I'd be honoured."
She smiles back, that same warmth shining in her eyes.
Almost instantly, she stops looking like my manager and starts looking like my friend. Her shoulders relax and she leans across the table.
"So..." she whispers, lowering her voice. "Do you think they're right about Ben Dorset?"
I shrug.
"I've heard of him, but I couldn't tell you a single thing about him." I think for a second. "I saw an interview with him a few years ago." Another shrug. "Decided I had absolutely no interest in Formula One or rich men who're handed everything on a silver platter."
Clea laughs.
"But having a celebrity in Daffodil Bay would be pretty cool, no?"
"Is he really a celebrity?"
Her eyes widen.
"Harley! Next you'll be telling me Lewis Hamilton isn't a celebrity."
"Yeah..." I concede. "But Lewis seems nice from what I've seen." I pull a face. "The rest of them all seem to have egos the size of beach balls."
I shrug again.
"I mean... maybe I would too if Daddy's money had paid for me to walk into one of the best-paid careers in the world."
"You're probably right," Clea says, "but it's still exciting." Her eyes light up. "It could do so much for the business if I could get him in here. Imagine if we ended up in the local paper."
I glance around the restaurant.
"Do you really think we need more business?"
"Of course!"
She looks offended that I'd even ask.
"We can always aim higher. If we had enough customers to afford a bigger unit or even open a second restaurant one day..." A smile spreads across her face. I can tell how excited she is at the thought. "...that'd be my absolute dream."
I smile. I get it.
"Well, if I happen to bump into this Ben Dorset fella, I'll personally escort him through the front door."
Clea giggles.
"This is why I love you, Harls." She points a finger at me. "I know you'd actually do it.”
Clea climbs to her feet and disappears back into the kitchen. I watch her go, shaking my head to myself.
Surely if a famous sportsman has moved to a tiny beach town on the south coast of Wales, he's here to fly under the radar.
Not to help small businesses get into the press.
I laugh quietly.
The chances of some arrogant, rich bloke wandering into The Tide House have to be practically—
The bell above the door jingles.
I look up.
Oh. Well.
Apparently I should stop tempting fate.
Benjamin Dorset stands in the doorway. At least... I think it's him.
I've only ever seen the odd interview and a few headlines, but he looks more rugged than I remember. His hair's a little longer than I remember and he looks thinner. He's swapped the black race suit for a crisp white shirt and dark jeans.
Annoyingly, he wears both equally well. That's a little bit inconvenient.
I pretend not to notice him as he chooses a table and it lasts all of about ten seconds.
Click.
I ignore it.
Click. Click.
Surely not.
I turn around and Benjamin Dorset is looking in my direction.
"I need a menu."
His eyes don't even leave his laptop.
"Menus are on the tables," I reply through gritted teeth, doing my best to keep my customer service smile firmly in place.
Honestly. Who clicks their fingers at someone?
I unhappily take his order and we don't communicate again until I take his fish and chips over.
"Enjoy," I say with my brightest customer service smile.
Nothing. Not even a thank you.
I turn on my heel and the smile immediately slips from my face. Clea catches my expression the second I reach the counter.
"What's he like?" she whispers.
I let out a long sigh. Apparently my face says enough, because she laughs.
"Be nice," she reminds me. "We need to make a good impression."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Hey. I'm always nice."
She snorts before disappearing back into the kitchen.
As soon as word spreads that four-time World Champion Benjamin Dorset is sitting in The Tide House, the restaurant somehow gets even busier.
Exactly what Clea wanted and exactly what my poor feet didn't.
Ben stays tucked away in the corner, using his menu like a shield whenever someone wanders over to say hello or ask for a photo.
For someone who's supposedly one of the most famous sportsmen in the country, he sure looks like he wishes nobody knew who he was.
I lift a tray of several glasses and hurry between tables.
"I'm so sorry for the wait."
"Thank you for being so patient."
"I'll be right back with that."
Every customer gets the same bright, genuine smile. And it really is genuine. I love serving people. If I can make someone's day even a tiny bit better, then I've done my job.
By this point, though, I'm exhausted.
The second my back's turned, I let out a long breath and brush the damp strands of hair away from my forehead.
Click.
I freeze.
Click. Click.
I close my eyes for the briefest moment.
You're joking.
I turn around.
Benjamin Dorset is sitting alone, his laptop open beside his half-empty plate.
Yes, he is totally clicking at me again.
I put the tray down on an empty table and make my way over to him, pasting on the biggest customer service smile I can manage.
It's a really fake one.
"Can I help you?" I ask between gritted teeth.
Ben gestures towards his food.
"I would like this sent back."
I glance down at the plate. "Right..."
"The fish is dry."
"You've eaten half of it," I note.
"That doesn't alter the fact it was overcooked."
I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek.
What I want to say would almost definitely get me fired. Even by Clea. Instead, I take a slow, calming breath.
"If you're after Michelin-star service," I say sweetly, "what exactly are you doing at a cheap-and-cheerful beach restaurant?"
For the first time since he walked through the door, Ben actually looks at me. Properly.
The question seems to catch him off guard.
"Perhaps because I've recently moved to the area," he replies evenly. "And have yet to acquire an internet connection."
He gestures towards the laptop, and I follow his gaze.
Fair enough.
...
No, actually, I'm still really annoyed.
Ben returns his attention to the screen and I let out a quiet laugh of disbelief.
Honestly, he's getting under my skin, and that's not even an easy thing to do. I have three siblings. I've spent my entire life perfecting the patience of a saint.
"I fail to see what's amusing," he says without looking up.
That irritates me even more.
"You mean you couldn't ring Sky and simply snap your fingers to have it sorted immediately?"
Ben frowns.
"What?"
"Hello. I'm Benjamin Dorset. Former World Champion. Kindly rearrange your schedule to accommodate me,'" I say, doing my best impression of him.
Ben unexpectedly coughs on a chip and his eyes flick up to meet mine.
"You do know who I am then? I was wondering."
I fold my arms across my chest.
"I've seen you on television. In the odd interview."
Okay, so I knew him enough to know he won more races than most people could dream of, but not enough to think he was worth clicking his fingers at strangers.
"Have you indeed?"
"Unfortunately."
Ben leans back in his chair. For the first time since he'd walked through the door, he kind-of looks amused.
"And what exactly did television teach you about me?"
"That you're arrogant."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Only arrogant?"
I tilt my head.
"Would you prefer the full list?"
A short laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"So..." he says, recovering quickly. "Are you going to get me my new meal, or do I need to speak to your manager?"
His eyes drift around the restaurant, searching for someone older.
I flash him another overly sweet customer service smile and pick up his plate.
"I'll be right back."
I turn on my heel before I say something that I can't take back.
