“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.”
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.”
