A rabbit staring down a wolf. Terrified but not backing down.
She’s throwing my own rules in my face. I’m the one who said she should go through Craig so I could create distance. I’ve made her feel like she needs permission to speak to me.
That’s not who I am. Or wasn’t. I’ve always prided myself on being approachable to my staff. Otherwise, I would be sitting in my cushy office in London headquarters all the time.
I rub the back of my neck, irritation fighting guilt. “I’d still like to see it now.”
Her lips compress into a thin line. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”
Delighted.Right.
I drag the spare chair over and drop into it beside her. My thigh presses against hers before I can shift back. This cupboard wasn’t built for two people, especially not when one takes up as much space as I do.
She doesn’t flinch but her eyes dart down to where we’re touching, then away.
My jaw tightens. Of course she’s nervous. Last time we were this close, I had her pressed against my boat, tongue in her mouth.
She scoots her chair sideways. When she angles the laptop toward me, she’s careful not to let our arms touch. Like that two-inch gap is a fucking fortress wall.
“Phase one’s complete,” she says, as she clicks through screens. “There’s also something extra you might find useful. A waste tracking module for those efficiency concerns you mentioned at dinner.”
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, windows popping up faster than I can track.
“You can forecast to reduce waste,” she says briskly, not looking at me. “As long as the data’s easy to collect. If you make it manual, it won’t happen. Kitchen staff don’t have time to track every scrap. And once it’s in the bin, it’s gone.” She pauses. “But IRIS will.”
My gaze flicks to the screen.
“We install weight sensors in the bins. Everything that gets tossed is auto-logged and weighed.”
“Clever bin.” I lean closer to the screen.
“Yes. The cameras do a quick scan and go, ‘that’s the fifth half-eaten steak today.’ Then it tags that dish as a repeat offender. Pretty soon, you’ve got a pattern: the Sunday roast’s too big, the veggie lasagna’s fine, and nobody ever eats the sad purple sprig of mystery garnish.”
This isn’t just impressive—it’s better than anything I’ve seen at luxury chains twice our size.
I lean in for a better look and reach for the mouse.
Our hands collide.
She yanks hers back like I’ve electrocuted her.
I guess I deserved that.
I focus on the screen instead of how she’s pressed herself against the wall to maximize distance. “If this works the way you’re describing... bloody hell, this is exactly what we need.”
“It works. It just needs testing to refine accuracy parameters.”
“You told the team about this after our dinner? Craig never mentioned.”
“No, the team don’t know yet.” She keeps her eyes on the screen. “This is something I’ve been working on, on the side.”
“When?”
“Evenings.” She shrugs, still not looking at me.
“Why?”
Finally, she turns. Her eyes meet mine.
