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 apalate.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 thissituation, 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.”
