Chapter 14 #2
Fabulous. Now I’m blushing at the mental image of his chest instead of focusing on the sheep’s stomach situation in front of me.
I prod the haggis with my fork. “The texture is…something. Sort of coarse and grainy, with these mysterious dark bits scattered through it.”
“Those would be the herbs and spices,” he says, cutting himself a large chunk.
“Right. Or minced heart, liver, lungs. Could be kidney in there.” I poke at a darker bit. “It’s like someone took all the bits nobody wanted and convinced Scotland it was a delicacy.”
He eyes me with faint amusement. “Sounds like you’ve done your homework.”
“I research everything before I attempt it. I’m not exactly what you’d call spontaneous, I suppose.”
“Certainly explains why ‘farmer’ came with a pros and cons analysis.”
I groan and cover my face with my napkin. “Can we please not?”
He takes a massive bite of haggis, as if consuming sheep organs might somehow erase the memory of my mortifying list. Damn it, he makes eating sheep lung look good.
The flex of his jaw, the slow movement of his throat as he swallows…
this man could blow his nose, and I’d need to change my underwear.
“Did you taste that?” I ask. “Or just swallow it whole?”
“Tasted what I needed to.” He points his fork at my untouched haggis. “Eat.”
I poke at the edge, stalling, when suddenly his hand closes over mine on the fork handle. I make an embarrassing squeaky sound.
Without asking permission, he guides my fork into the haggis, scooping up what seems like an enormous amount for a first-timer.
My brain short-circuits. Is he going to... feed me?
But no. He releases my hand and sits back, leaving me clutching the loaded fork.
I’m still frozen, staring at the fork, when his patience apparently evaporates.
He leans forward and eats the haggis right off my fork.
My mouth falls open. “You... ate the haggis.”
“Someone had to. Load another forkful, unless you’re planning to have a staring contest with that plate all night.”
“I was building up to it. I’m naturally cautious about unfamiliar things.”
“If you hesitate too long in life, someone else eats your haggis.”
“Some people like to think before rushing headlong into things,” I counter, oddly defensive about my haggis hesitation. “We can’t all just shove unfamiliar things into our mouths without any consideration whatsoever.”
I realize how that sounds the moment it leaves my mouth. My eyes go wide.
He exhales a huff, somewhere between amusement and impatience.
I panic and shove the entire forkful into my mouth before I can say anything worse about putting things in mouths.
“Not terrible,” I manage after swallowing. “Kind of like stuffing.”
“Ringing endorsement for my Michelin-starred chef.”
“I just can’t switch my brain off. All I keep thinking is this is spiced sheep organs in a stomach bag.”
“Stop overthinking and just eat the bloody thing.”
“Overthinking is literally my core personality trait.”
He takes a long drink of water and fixes me with that unnervingly direct stare. “Overthinking doesn’t get things done.”
I bristle, feeling my shoulders tighten. I know what he means, and it’s not about haggis. It’s about me being too much of a mouse to succeed in his corporate world.
“Do you have something specific you’d like to say?” I ask in the smallest voice imaginable.
He sighs. “Look, you obviously know more about the system than I thought. But in business, you have to speak up. Stop overthinking every move and just act. Aren’t you looking to advance? Get promoted?”
“Ravi was planning to promote me,” I say quietly, staring at my plate. “But I guess Craig didn’t agree with his assessment.”
“Craig’s tougher than Ravi. More realistic about what it takes to succeed.”
The words sit in my chest like stones. Craig’s not tough; he’s cruel. There’s a difference between pushing someone to grow and systematically destroying their confidence, but I can’t say that.
Patrick leans forward. “I know Craig comes off more brutish than Ravi. But sometimes you need that kind of tough love to push you forward. Craig’s delivering exceptional results for me at a rate that Ravi never managed.”
I stare at Patrick, emotion rising in my chest. I want to explain that Craig’s “exceptional results” come from us working until 3 a.m.
What Patrick can’t see from his CEO throne is that Ravi protected us from ridiculous demands while Craig just says yes to everything.
“Ravi was a great boss,” I say, needing to defend my old mentor. “He cared about his team.”
“I’m not denying that.”
“And I know I tanked the interview,” I admit, my face heating. “Ravi took a massive risk giving me that chance.”
Patrick’s jaw flexes. “So don’t waste it.”
“It’s just that I’m... quieter than some colleagues.”
“That’s not going to get you ahead in life. No one’s going to hand you opportunities if you sit in the corner hoping someone notices you.”
I drop my gaze to my plate, that tiny spark of confidence from earlier dissolving.
Here it is—the fundamental difference between us. Patrick conquered the business world by being the loudest, strongest person in every room. He can’t imagine that some of us do our best work in quieter spaces.
“I’m trying to help you here. You can’t just hope someone notices you’re doing adequate work and magically promotes you.”
Adequate. Months of sixteen-hour days refining IRIS, patching crises before they erupted—and in his mind, I’m merely adequate.
“Right,” I whisper, pushing haggis around my plate.
“I’m not trying to upset you, Georgie.”
“I know.”
And I do. He thinks he’s being helpful. In Patrick’s world, the rules are simple: be loud or be lunch. Survival of the loudest, most ruthless voice.
But maybe I do need to fight back. Just a little. I stood up to Chef MacLeod today, and I’m still breathing.
“Are you saying the person with the loudest voice is automatically the most competent person in the room?” I ask.
He frowns, clearly not expecting pushback from the mouse in IT. “No. But having no voice at all isn’t the answer either.”
“But we’re all different,” I say, testing out words I’ve never said out loud. “That’s why teams exist. Not everyone needs to be an alpha personality fighting for airtime. Some of us contribute differently.”
I take a shaky breath, channeling Riri’s spirit. “Mozart wasn’t holding group workshops to compose symphonies. Einstein wasn’t busy playing office politics when he developed the theory of relativity. Some people need quiet to create.”
His eyebrow shoots up. “You’re comparing yourself to Mozart and Einstein?”
“No! God, no. I just mean... people work differently. The traditional corporate approach—speak up or get left behind—isn’t the only way to add value.”
My pulse hammers as I force out the next words. “In my humble opinion, the loudest voice in the room isn’t always the smartest. Sometimes it’s just the most insecure, trying to drown out everyone else.”
It’s the closest I’ve come to calling Craig out, and it feels like walking on shaky ground.
Patrick’s eyes narrow. “So what are you suggesting? That I coddle every introvert on my payroll?”
“No.” I shrink into my chair but keep going. “Just... maybe give this particular introvert a chance? Don’t send backup from London. Let me prove I can handle this project. Please.”
He studies me for what feels like an eternity. Finally, he gives a curt nod. “Fine. But no more chefs threatening to quit over your communication skills.”
“Deal.”
It’s not exactly a vote of confidence—more like agreeing not to fire me immediately—but I’ll take it.
We lapse into an awkward truce.
“Thanks for helping me tick something off my list,” I say, desperate to lighten the mood.
His jaw is doing that clenching thing again.
“The haggis,” he says, voice strained.