Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Someone else eats your haggis
Georgie
I have transcended ordinary embarrassment and entered some sort of advanced mortification dimension. One where Patrick McLaren has seen my sex to-do list written in pink chalk.
By the time I’m ninety and shuffling around my care home, I’ll have a scrapbook of humiliations. Sandra, the nurse, will be spooning lukewarm custard into my mouth when I’ll go misty-eyed and whisper, “He knew about the lighthouse keeper, Sandra.”
And she’ll pat my hand sympathetically, assuming dementia has kicked in.
Patrick’s hand settles at the small of my back as he guides me through the hotel’s main restaurant. The warmth sends little sparks racing over my skin in ways that are deeply unhelpful to my current mental state.
For one delusional moment, it almost feels like we’re on a date, not that I have extensive experience with dates, especially not with men like him.
The staff practically bow as we pass. “Good evening, Mr. McLaren, your usual table?”
They lead us to a prime spot by the massive window, Portree harbor glittering beyond the glass. I can feel every pair of staff eyes tracking our movement, probably wondering what this flushed, awkward woman is doing dining with their boss.
The restaurant hums with different languages and accents: American tourists debating tomorrow’s distillery tour, a German couple studying a map, rapid Mandarin from a large family group.
“People really do come from all over the world to visit Skye,” I say.
Patrick’s brow arches, mouth twitching. “You sound surprised. Don’t you think we deserve the international attention?”
“No! I mean, of course you do.” I feel like a complete numpty.
“I knew it from the data while building IRIS. All the visitor demographics and booking patterns. But seeing it in person is different. I suppose you take for granted what’s on your doorstep.
” I twist a corner of my napkin. “I’m a bit ashamed I’ve never been to Scotland before this. ”
“Well, you’re here now,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Has experiencing it firsthand made you want to travel more?”
I pause, the question brushing against a truth I usually keep sealed tight—how I’ve cocooned myself in safe routines, perfecting the art of avoiding anything that might demand spontaneity. “I suppose it has.”
“The wine list, Mr. McLaren,” the server appears, and Patrick waves it away.
“The usual. Unless,” he looks at me, “you have a preference?”
Preference? I don’t even have a palate. I buy based purely on which label has the prettiest font and whatever’s at arm height in Tesco. “I trust your judgment.”
“Dangerous words.”
This makes me blush so hard I can actually feel my ears heating up. Why does everything he says sound vaguely threatening and also somehow... flirty?
Bagpipes start up in the courtyard at eight o’clock, right on schedule.
Patrick tilts his head toward the sound. “You like them?”
“Very authentic,” I say, though honestly, bagpipes at close range are a bit like being shouted at musically. They make me feel like I’m about to be conscripted into an ancient clan battle.
The waiter appears again, and Patrick greets him with easy familiarity. “We’ll have tasting portions of all the main courses tonight, Mick.”
My mouth drops open. “Are you starving?”
“I want you to sample everything our kitchen has to offer.” He turns back to the waiter. “It’s her first time in Scotland. We’re making up for lost time.”
That’s a lot of pressure for someone whose colon clams up during stressful periods.
“Patrick, that’s fifteen dishes! That’s far too much.”
“No pressure to finish anything,” he says, dismissing the waiter with a smile. “Just try whatever appeals to you.”
“First you’re trying to control my sex life, now my eating habits,” I joke weakly, because if I can’t find some humor in this situation, I’ll probably melt into a puddle of mortification right here under the tartan lampshade.
His jaw clenches so violently I can see the muscle jump. The mere mention of my list seems to cause him physical pain.
Oh God, he’s probably picturing it. Me, awkwardly attempting to seduce some poor farmer, apologizing throughout. “Sorry, is this your sheep? Should I move? Am I doing this right?”
“Please don’t tell Jake about the list,” I say quietly as our drinks appear on the table.
His eyes lock on mine. “If I want to stop your brother from cutting his expedition short, flying here, and murdering every man between here and Inverness, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me.
He raises a brow. “Something amusing?”
“I doubt Jake needs to worry about committing mass murder,” I say, still giggling because the truth is so painfully obvious. “There’s hardly a queue forming for my romantic attention.”
“You’re a young, single woman. The interest would be there. Regardless, you’re here to work.”
“That list makes me sound like I have a one-track mind, but it’s really not like that.” I press my napkin to my burning face, mumbling into the fabric. “The truth is, it’s the complete opposite. That’s all I’m saying about it. Can we please change the subject?”
His gaze flicks away just as waiters descend on our table with enough food to feed a Scottish village.
“Lucky for you,” Patrick says, his voice still tight, “the haggis has arrived.”
I look down at the thing in front of me and immediately reconsider my “embrace Scottish culture” plan.
It’s grayish-brown, crumbly, and sliced into neat little rounds like someone emptied a vacuum cleaner bag, mixed the contents with porridge, and then tried to make it look fancy by cutting it with a biscuit cutter.
“This is a ridiculous amount of food,” I say, watching plates multiply across our table. “I’m only going to manage a tiny bite of each. I feel guilty. Ninety percent of this is going to end up in the bin.”
“It won’t go to waste. I’ll take whatever’s left back to my place and work through it over the next few days.” He shrugs. “Actually, knowing my appetite, probably by tomorrow night.”
I blink. “You’re going to eat fifteen dinners’ worth of leftovers?”
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m a fairly substantial bloke. And I despise wastage. One of my biggest irritations about running hotels.”
“Because of the money it costs?”
“Not just the financial impact. It’s the environmental implications that really get under my skin. All those wasted resources that went into producing food that just gets binned. We waste so much damn meat.”
I nod, my brain spinning with possibilities. It’s not exactly surprising that Patrick cares about sustainability. I’ve seen the environmental initiatives he’s implemented across all the hotels. But hearing the passion in his voice sparks ideas about what more we could accomplish with IRIS.
He glances around the table. “Fifteen dishes. You called it exactly.”
I shrug, pleased that I got something right, even if it’s just menu trivia. “To design IRIS, we had to understand the hotels inside and out. There are fifteen main dishes on the seasonal menu right now. I could probably name all their ingredients.”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I wonder if that makes me sound like someone who sits alone in a dark room memorizing menus for fun.
But instead of smirking, Patrick’s brow lifts. “You understand our hotels inside and out, do you? All right, tell me something I don’t know about my own hotel.”
Oh. He’s challenging me. The glint in his eye suggests he doesn’t think the IT girl could possibly know something he doesn’t.
My mouth goes dry. I need to think of something he won’t know.
“Well, the bagpipes sound lovely, but not everyone appreciates them quite as much as you might think.”
He frowns. “We receive glowing compliments about the evening performance constantly.”
“Not from the tower. The medieval stone creates an acoustic nightmare that amplifies the sound directly upward. One guest described it as medieval torture. The performance runs for fifteen minutes, which is approximately fourteen minutes longer than most people want bagpipes beneath their window.” I twist my napkin.
His frown is skeptical, but there’s curiosity flickering there now. “How could you possibly know that?”
“IRIS analyzes all online reviews. The data doesn’t lie.”
He studies me for a long moment. “That’s... actually bloody clever.”
My heart flips at the genuine surprise in his voice. My idea that Craig will probably take credit for in the morning.
“Yes,” I say, holding his gaze. “It is.”
“Got any more revelations?”
Now we’re in my territory: data patterns, hidden connections, insights buried in numbers that everyone else overlooks.
I sit up straighter, the nervousness fading. “Here’s a fun one. Not that it’s useful—unless you fancy leaning into your hotel’s paranormal side—but guests who book the ‘haunted’ rooms spend sixty-seven percent more at the bar than anyone else.”
Patrick’s brow goes up. “Sixty-seven?”
“Mhm.” I can’t suppress a grin now. “Presumably either preloading on Dutch courage before lights out… or drowning their terror after spending the night listening to suspicious floor creaks and ghost children singing in the plumbing.”
“And you can back that up?”
“Of course.” I’m in full flow now, the thrill of sharing my discoveries overriding my usual self-consciousness. “So, did I tell you something you didn’t know about your own hotel?”
“Assuming it can be verified.” He leans back, eyes locked on mine. “Out of all the operational conversations I’ve had over the years… this one’s going to stick with me.”
I bite my lip, that stupid fizz of pride curling warm in my chest.
“Go on then.” He nods toward the haggis with a smirk. “Don’t keep Scotland’s national treasure waiting any longer.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, staring at the thing like it might develop legs and scurry off my plate.
“It’ll put hairs on your chest. That’s what my granddad told me when I first tried it.” He chuckles. “Nothing beats hearty Scottish cuisine.”