“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 contentswith 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’suseful—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?”
