Sneak Peek: The Heat Is Rising in Emerald Tide

Family legacy or personal passion?
The choice isn’t so simple.

It’s time to set sail on a special sneak peek of Emerald Tide!

The kitchen of Murphy’s Pub is all Aidan Murphy has ever known—the heat, the pressure, the unwavering traditions his father refuses to change. But Aidan is hungry for more than just running the family business. The weight of expectation is starting to suffocate him, and deep down, he knows there’s a world beyond the kitchen doors just waiting to be explored.

This exclusive first look at Emerald Tide throws you into the fire—literally. The chaos of a packed dinner service, the simmering tension with his father, and the quiet realization that something needs to change. But where can he go when his entire life has been carved out for him?

Emerald Tide is a story of passion, risk, and breaking free from the path others have laid out for you. Aidan doesn’t know it yet, but fate has a different course in mind… and soon, the sea will call.

Every plate is perfect.
Every dream feels impossible.

Emerald Tide—Chapter 1:

The kitchen of Murphy’s Irish Pub was a chaotic symphony.

The thud of feet on grease-slicked tiles mixed with the metallic scrape of spatulas and the sharp sizzle of meat searing on the grills. Steam hissed from pots, dimming the vibrant colors of vegetables under a smoky haze. The kitchen was a whirlwind of shouted orders and precise movements.

Heat and motion thickened the air, carrying the pungent scents of sweat, caramelized onions, and rosemary. Once pristine, Aidan’s chef’s coat was streaked with dark gravy and melted butter, a faint scorch mark branding one cuff. With his sleeves rolled up, you could see his sweaty forearms, all scarred from years of cooking.

“Chef, two shepherd’s pies up!” Declan’s voice boomed, the plates scraping across the counter.

“Yup!” Aidan barked back, his hands working swiftly, plating the food with mechanical precision. Every movement was ingrained, second nature. His body carried on, even as his mind wandered. Somewhere in the chaos, he’d stopped thinking.

He should have found comfort in that.

The heat was relentless, radiating from burners that hadn’t cooled since lunch. Sweat pooled at the base of Aidan’s neck, dampening his collar. The old ventilation system wheezed uselessly, the air heavy and unmoving. The smell of oil and caramelized onions clung to him like a second skin.

Tickets kept fluttering onto the rack, thin paper strips slapped into place. Declan and the kitchen staff moved like soldiers under siege, their shouts blending with the clatter of pans, the hiss of sauces, and the rhythmic chop of knives. Above it all, Aidan’s voice rang out, pushing them forward.

He had lived for this rush. Or at least, he used to.

Then, Seamus filled the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the faint light from the dining room, his figure a shadow carved out of stone. Arms crossed, he stood silently, surveying the chaos. The faint scent of pipe tobacco lingered, cutting through the kitchen’s sharper aromas. It was a scent that had followed Aidan since childhood, tied to early mornings and late nights before he’d understood the weight of the restaurant on his father’s shoulders.

Seamus’s presence sent an uneasy ripple through Aidan’s chest, breaking his tenuous focus. He didn’t need to say a word. Just standing there, he was a weight pressing down on the room.

“How’s it going, lad?” Seamus asked, his low voice carrying a quiet authority. It wasn’t a question; it was an order.

“Busy,” Aidan replied curtly, slicing into a piece of Guinness-braised beef. The knife slid cleanly through the tender meat, but the tightness in Aidan’s chest refused to ease.

Seamus’s eyes flicked to the clipboard hanging crookedly on the wall. “Bring the lamb stew up for the specials. It’s what they come for.”

Aidan’s jaw clenched. The same lamb stew. The same shepherd’s pie. The same menu, unchanged for thirty years was as rigid as the man who stood before him.

“I was thinking of running something new tonight,” Aidan said, keeping his tone clipped. “Maybe the blackened salmon I’ve been working on. Something lighter.”

Seamus’s expression hardened, his sharp eyes narrowing as he stepped further into the kitchen. His boots clicked faintly against the tile floor. “Lighter? Salmon?” His voice dropped lower, each word measured, but the authority in it was unyielding. “We don’t need fancy twists, lad. The customers don’t come here for ‘light.’ They come here for what they know. The food I built this place on.”

Aidan’s frustration flared, rising like a pot ready to boil over. He bit back the retort burning at the back of his throat and turned to the cutting board instead, his hands moving faster, his knife chopping more sharply. Each strike against the wood reverberated in his ears.

“This place needs some new dishes, Da,” he mumbled, just loud enough for Seamus.

Seamus cocked his head slightly, his eyes steady and sharp, pinning Aidan in place. “Tradition keeps us in business,” he said, his tone firm but quieter now, almost as if testing the words against himself. “Maybe you’ll understand that when you’re running the place.”

When you’re running the place.

The words landed on Aidan’s shoulders like a lead weight. His dad laid out his future, but it sounded more like a prison sentence than a promise. Day after day of serving the same dishes, running the same kitchen, walking the same path Seamus had carved out.

Seamus lingered a moment longer, searching Aidan’s face. For what, Aidan couldn’t tell—disapproval, frustration, or maybe something else his father would never admit aloud. Then Seamus clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture meant to be encouraging but only making the weight on Aidan feel heavier.

“Get back to the line, lad,” Seamus said, turning and disappearing into the restaurant beyond.

Aidan forced a tight smile that faded the moment Seamus was out of sight. He returned to the line, the roar of the kitchen swallowing him again. A quiet inner voice grew stronger with each difficult night and tense exchange.

He wanted something else. Something more.

The oven timer beeped, jolting Aidan back to the present. He reached for the pan, pulling out a tray of golden-brown soda bread. For a moment, his hand hovered over the warm loaves, his mind elsewhere. Then, with a sigh, he set the tray down and moved on to the next dish, his heart a little heavier than before.

The restaurant bustled on, indifferent to the cracks forming beneath his surface.

The kitchen door swung open with a clang, and in walked Jazz, hips swaying to an interior beat only she could hear. A mischievous grin stretched across her face, highlighting the dark curls piled high on her head; the curls smelled faintly of woodsmoke and sunshine. Clutter and chaos didn’t faze her; she thrived in it, moving through the whirlwind of Murphy’s like a dance she knew by heart.

“Oi, Chef!” she called melodiously, her voice cutting through the din like a burst of musicShe propped one elbow on the counter, her weight shifting to one side as she let out an exaggerated sigh. “What’s the holdup on that side of colcannon? You’ve got one very impatient customer at the bar asking about it. Furthermore, he wants your autograph on them mashed potatoes … says they’d better be extra special coming out tonight.”

Aidan glanced up from the dish he was plating, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “He wants my autograph?” He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, tossing a quick look her way. “Tell him it’s extra. Five bucks per signature. Nah, make it ten. I’m feeling generous.”

Jazz laughed, warm and infectious, her eyes sparkling as she crossed the kitchen to lean beside him on the counter. “I’ll let him know, but I’m keeping half of that. Bartender’s tax.”

“You’re merciless,” Aidan said, shaking his head as he slid the side of colcannon toward her. “There you go. Fresh off the line. Tell him it’s so good, it’ll change his life.”

Jazz winked, lifting the plate with ease. “I’ll tell him it’s magic, but we both know the truth.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dipping into a teasing tone. “Speaking of which, what time do you plan to dazzle me with your presence at the bar tonight?”

Aidan’s smirk grew as he played along. “Depends. What’s the special? And don’t say Guinness—I can get that for free back here.”

“Oh, you’re so picky,” Jazz said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Lucky for you, we just got a new whiskey shipment in. Something smooth, just the way you like it. I’ll even pour it myself so you know it’s made with love.”

Aidan let out a gentle laugh as he shook his head. No matter how insane the night got, Jazz always managed to lighten the mood. Where Seamus’s presence weighed him down with tradition and obligation, Jazz brought lightness—a certain ease he had come to rely on over the years.

“Ah, all right,” Aidan said, mock defeat in his voice. “You win. I’ll come by when things settle down here. You know I can’t resist when you bribe me with whiskey.”

Jazz grinned triumphantly, but before she turned to leave, she leaned a hip against the counter and studied him, her expression softening. “You know, you really should give yourself a break sometime, Chef. It’s not all on your shoulders, you know.”

Aidan exhaled, his smile faltering just a little. “Feels like it is,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his towel. “I just want this place to work—really work. Not just scrape by on the same old menu and tradition. I’ve got ideas, but … ” He trailed off, shrugging as if to brush the weight of it aside. “Let’s just say my dad and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on it.”

Jazz hesitated for a moment but didn’t push. Instead, she offered him a small, knowing smile. “For what it’s worth, I think Murphy’s could be more than it is. And I think you’re the one who could make it happen—if you don’t let him wear you down first.”

Aidan huffed a quiet laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Easier said than done, Jazz.”

“Most good things are,” she said with a shrug, then lifted the plate again. “Now stop sulking and get back to work. I’ll see you at the bar later. Don’t make me come back here and drag you out myself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, a trace of a real smile breaking through as she spun on her heel and headed out the door.

He watched her go, shaking his head as he returned to the line. The banter was familiar, a brief reprieve from the relentless pressure surrounding him. But as the kitchen roared back to life, the weight of Seamus’s words lingered, coiling around him like the heat of the ovens.

Tradition keeps us in business. Maybe you’ll grasp that when you’re running the place. 

The thought gnawed at him as he plated another dish. When you’re running the place. It wasn’t just a promise—it was a life sentence. And no amount of whiskey or laughter could drown out the quiet voice in his head, the one asking: What if I don’t want to?

The rhythm of the kitchen pulled him forward, one order at a time, but the question lingered. Always there. Always louder.

“Smart man.” Jazz’s voice floated back into the kitchen as she nudged him playfully with her elbow before heading back to the bar. Before disappearing through the swinging door, she glanced over her shoulder, her smile softening. “Take a break when you can, Aidan. You’re looking too serious back there.”

Aidan exhaled, the weight of the evening pressing on him again, though her words lifted it, if only a fraction. “Yeah,” he said, giving her a quick nod. “I’ll try.”

“You better,” she tossed back, her laughter lingering in the air as the door swung shut behind her.

For a moment, the kitchen felt lighter, the pressure dialed down just a notch. Aidan watched the door sway in her wake, a half-smile lingering on his lips. That was what Jazz did for him—she put cold water on a sweltering day. She made nights like this bearable, even when the weight of everything else threatened to crush him.

But the din of the kitchen roared back as the door settled, the unrelenting cadence pulling him back into the rhythm: the next ticket, the next order, the next obligation. Despite everything, the brief moment of banter with Jazz clung to him, a subtle reminder that not everything in his life was defined by duty and tradition. Some things—some people—still brought a spark of light.

He reached for the next plate, his movements a little slower, his mind drifting back to their exchange. Later, after the last order went out and the kitchen cooled, he’d slip into the bar and let Jazz pour him that promised drink. Let the world fall away for a moment. Maybe tonight, for once, he wouldn’t overthink everything.

But for now, there were orders to fill and plates to perfect.

The rest of the crew—a mix of line cooks and dishwashers—shifted into cleanup mode, their chatter a low hum as they restocked shelves, scrubbed counters, and stacked dishes in the walk-in. The clatter of pots and pans softened into a steady rhythm as the night wound down.

Aidan wiped the sweat from his brow, grabbed a cloth, and began cleaning the counters. The repetitive motion was almost meditative, but his mind churned restlessly. His earlier confrontation with Seamus gnawed at him like a pebble in his shoe, small but sharp. Lately, every conversation with his father felt the same—less like a discussion, more like a reminder of a future that felt less like an opportunity and more like a cage.

The creak of the kitchen door pulled him from his thoughts. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The faint scent of lavender and rosemary drifted in, as familiar to him as the kitchen’s ever-present heat.

“Still at it, are ye? Goin’ at it like you’re twenty-five?” came Maureen’s voice, soft and warm, with just the slightest edge of concern. “You should be sittin’ down by now, mo ghrá.”

Aidan’s lips twitched at the sound of the old nickname—mo ghrá, my love. She’d been calling him that since he was a boy, back when he’d run around the kitchen chasing stray potatoes and stealing nibbles of raw dough when Seamus wasn’t looking.

“Not done yet, Ma,” he said without turning, still focused on scrubbing the grill. “If I stop now, the place’ll be a disaster in the morning.”

Maureen stepped further into the kitchen, wrapping her arms around herself the way she always did when she was worried. Her sharp blue eyes scanned him, missing nothing—from the exhaustion carved into his face to the tightness in his movements that betrayed just how much he was holding back.

“You look tired,” she said softly, though her tone carried a quiet firmness. “And don’t tell me you’re fine. You’re always fine.”

“I am fine,” Aidan replied, scrubbing a little harder than necessary. “It’s just another busy night.”

Maureen didn’t respond right away, but he could feel her eyes lingering, her silence heavier than words. He knew what was coming before she even opened her mouth.

“Your father,” she began, her voice cautious but steady, purposeful. “I know you two haven’t—”

“Ma!” Aidan interrupted, his tone sharp but pleading as he set the rag down. “Not now. Not here. Please.”

He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the crew still moving about, cleaning and tidying, close enough to overhear if Maureen pushed the issue. He didn’t want anyone else knowing how fractured things felt between him and Seamus.

Maureen sighed, the sound heavier than she meant it to be. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I’m just worried about you, Aidan. You’ve been taking on too much. And I don’t mean just here in the kitchen.”

Her words sat heavy in his chest because, of course, she was right. The pressure from the restaurant, the weight of his father’s expectations—it was all bearing down on him, more than he knew how to handle. He wanted to make Murphy’s better, to help it grow into something stronger, but the constant battles with Seamus were draining. They were both too stubborn, too set in their ways, and it felt like nothing would ever change.

“I’ll handle it, Ma,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “I just need some time.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, unconvinced, but she nodded anyway. “You need to take better care of yourself, mo ghrá,” she said softly. “You’ve always pushed yourself past your limits and told everyone you were fine. Just … don’t forget to slow down every once in a while.”

Aidan gave her a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I won’t.”

She lingered for a moment, the weight of unspoken concern settling between them. Then, with a tenderness that caught him off guard, she reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, the gesture as familiar as it was comforting.

“I’m going home,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you Sunday for family dinner, yeah?”

“Sunday,” he echoed, nodding.

“You better be,” she teased, a small smile breaking through. “Or I’ll send your father after you with a wooden spoon.”

That got a real smile out of Aidan, brief but genuine. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

With a light laugh, she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before departing the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of lavender and rosemary.

When the door swung shut behind her, Aidan let out a long breath, leaning his hands on the counter. The weight of the night, the tension with his father, and his mother’s quiet concern all pressed down on him like the heat of the ovens.

Sunday dinner loomed ahead, another ritual steeped in obligation. Another round of lectures about the future, the restaurant, and the Murphy name. Aidan wasn’t sure he wanted to carry it anymore. But what choice did he have?

He sighed, picked up the rag again, and resumed scrubbing.

The kitchen wasn’t clean yet. Neither was his head.

Want more? Emerald Tide sets sail March 31—preorder today!

Aidan Murphy is standing at a crossroads—stay where it’s safe, or finally chase the unknown.

His journey is just beginning in Emerald Tide, sailing into bookstores March 31, 2025, alongside its companion novel, Sapphire Seas. Two sides of one love story, both filled with passion, self-discovery, and the undeniable pull of fate.

So, what happens when the sea sweeps Aidan away from everything he’s ever known? You’ll find out soon. Preorder today and get ready to set sail.

And don’t forget—next week, we’re switching perspectives. Come back for an exclusive sneak peek at the opening chapter of Sapphire Seas and step into Harper’s world!