He’d brought with him only what he could cram into his 4×4. The house was partly furnished but he’d arranged for a few pieces of furniture and equipment to be shipped by a removals firm. He’d be glad when they arrived later in the day because after a night in the rented pile, he still had a sense of disorientation. All his childhood insecurities and fears had flooded back the moment he’d driven down the steep hill into the harbour and through the narrow streets to Stippy Stappy Lane, which eventually petered out in a track at the gates of Clifftop House.

Wavecrest Cottage was one of three in a terrace a hundred yards down the track towards the village. He knew that Sam and Zennor still lived there. Exactly the same as they always had … whereas he was now the tenant of the biggest house in Porthmellow.

When he’d told his PA to get a house with a great kitchen and he didn’t mind the bill, he hadn’t meant rent a great big Victorian pad that looked down on the village, which is exactly what Clifftop House did. How many times had he dreamed of living in the grand Victorian ‘gentleman’s residence’ in its lofty position above the waves? Christ, the place even had a turret, which had always reminded him of Dracula’s castle. In fact, the turret had been his favourite feature of the house, back when he was a young boy and addicted to Gothic horror films and Manga comics.

Gabe groaned. He wasn’t a lad now. He was a grown-up and he’d only spent one night in the house and was already regretting it.

Suzy had insisted that Clifftop was the only place available at such short notice on a three-month rental. Gabe had agreed reluctantly, but now wished he hadn’t. He should have gone for something more discreet, tucked away inland rather than making a statement like this. It looked as if he wanted to lord it over the village … which he didn’t.

And yet. Why shouldn’t he rent Clifftop House? Why should he be afraid to return and ashamed of his success? He’d worked bloody hard to get where he was. All the long shifts in baking hot kitchens, the abuse from top chefs, the low pay, the burns, the cuts, the worry of starting out on his own … and it wasn’t as if he owed anyone in Porthmellow anything, was it? They’d hardly begged him to return. And as for Sam …

He cursed under his breath and as soon as he did, he realised he was cursing himself. He couldn’t blame her for what had happened. He couldn’t even blame Ryan entirely, and it was his decision to come back.