My Fake Fiancé is a Highlander (Highland Chaos #2)

Chapter 1

KEIRA

Highlands alert: matchmaking operation in progress

I stare into my glass of whisky like it might hold the answer to life’s biggest question—how do I escape my grandmother without committing a full-blown family felony?

Unfortunately, even the finest Highland single malt isn’t offering up any solutions.

Which is a shame, because after forty-five minutes trapped at the table between Maggie McGregor and Robert MacAllister—the third “perfect match” she’s shoved in front of me this month—I’m seriously considering dropping everything and reinventing myself on the other side of the world.

“And as I was just explaining to Keira,” my grandmother announces to the room with the enthusiasm of a sports commentator trying to make curling sound thrilling, “Robert has recently acquired the entire western slope of Strath Finella to develop a luxury retreat.”

I look up just in time to see Robert puff out his chest. Literally. Like a pigeon in mating season. I nearly choke trying not to laugh.

“We’ve come up with a revolutionary concept,” he adds, waving his fork around. “Glass bungalows for stargazing. American tourists absolutely love it.”

I force a polite smile while a siren blares in my head. Glass bungalows. On Strath Finella. One of the last hills in the Highlands still untouched by tourist overload. A place home to centuries-old trees and nesting grounds for protected birds.

My smile tightens.

“Fascinating,” I say, in a tone that is anything but. “And what do you plan to do about the listed seventeenth-century structure at the top? The old watchtower?”

Robert flicks his hand dismissively, like he’s swatting away something insignificant.

“Oh, that ruin? We’ll keep it as a decorative feature. Add some spotlights. Very Instagrammable, you know?”

Heat floods my face, burning like the peat used to dry malt. Turning a historical monument into a selfie prop—that’s his grand vision. I’m about to tell him exactly what I think of his “Instagrammable” disaster when I meet my grandmother’s sharp gaze.

Don’t even think about it, Keira Isla McGregor.

I swallow my speech about architectural preservation and take a long sip of whisky. A very long sip.

“Robert also sits on the Highlands Tourism Board,” Maggie continues, shooting me a meaningful look. “A connection that could be quite useful for someone working in architectural preservation, don’t you think, darling?”

The reason I’m stuck at this painfully dull dinner is simple—my grandmother has decided to take control of my love life. And she has zero limits, even if it means disguising professional pressure as matchmaking.

Ever since her grand, slightly terrifying scheme turned my brother Callum’s arranged marriage to Jane into a genuine love story, Maggie has declared herself an “expert in reluctant Scottish hearts.” And unfortunately for me, I am now her primary project.

“Absolutely fascinating,” I repeat, draining my glass.

Across from me, my mother, Isobel, gives me a sympathetic look.

She married into the McGregor clan—she understands my suffering.

Callum, my traitorous brother, conveniently took Jane to Edinburgh tonight, leaving me to fend for myself.

I make a mental note to hide one sock from every pair he owns so he’ll never wear matching ones again.

The image of him in one green and one blue sock almost makes this evening worth it.

“You know, Keira,” Robert says, leaning in far too close, his whisky-sauce breath invading my lungs, “I’ve always had a thing for passionate women.”

He says passionate like it’s something indecent we’re secretly sharing. I suddenly feel the need to check that every button on my blouse is still done.

“A passion for old stones is unusual,” he adds, “but charming.”

He winks. I briefly consider drowning myself in my plate of haggis.

“It’s not a passion for old stones,” I correct, struggling to stay polite. “It’s a commitment to preserving our cultural and architectural heritage—the stories that shape who we are and—”

“What Keira means,” Maggie cuts in with a tight smile, “is that she’s very dedicated to her work. An admirable quality, wouldn’t you say, Robert?”

Robert nods like he’s just been handed the secret to eternal life.

“Absolutely. I like women with ambition.”

Another wink. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a medical condition.

An awkward silence settles over the table, broken only by the clink of cutlery. A moment later, Mrs. Finley, our cook, comes in to clear the plates. When her eyes meet mine, I see pure solidarity. She’s witnessed too many of Maggie’s orchestrated dinners not to understand.

“That was delicious, Mrs. Finley,” I say sincerely, grasping for anything to change the subject.

“Thank you, dear. Your grandmother’s favorite haggis recipe. With a bit more whisky than usual.”

She gives me a discreet wink. Now that’s a wink I can appreciate. I smile, realizing she probably upped the alcohol just to help me survive the evening. That woman deserves a raise.

“Speaking of whisky,” Robert jumps in, “are you familiar with the McKenzie distillery?”

I freeze.

The McKenzies. Our family’s longtime rivals. Owners of the neighboring distillery—and currently trying to buy the ancestral land I want for my cultural center project. The ultimate taboo topic in this house.

“The heir, Alistair, seems intent on modernizing the business,” Robert continues. “His methods are controversial, but apparently effective.”

“Alistair McKenzie,” my grandmother sniffs, like the name itself offends her, “has no understanding of the true spirit of the Highlands. Turning an ancestral distillery into a flashy tourist attraction—what a disgrace.”

Strangely, Maggie is outraged by McKenzie’s projects but completely charmed by Robert’s. Just more proof she’s playing matchmaker tonight.

I bite my lip to stay quiet. I’ve clashed with Alistair more than once at heritage council meetings, and—though I hate to admit it—some of his modernization ideas aren’t entirely terrible.

“That boy actually had the nerve to offer to buy our southern parcel—the one bordering their land,” Maggie continues, slamming her hand on the table with surprising force. “Over my dead body. That land has belonged to the McGregors since 1743!”

“And it will stay that way,” my mother says soothingly.

“But let’s talk about the future, not old feuds,” Robert cuts in, his enthusiasm painfully forced. “Keira, what would you say to a private tour of my future resort on Strath Finella? I could personally walk you through the plans… and who knows where it might lead?”

He smiles like he thinks it’s charming. It makes me wonder if he has fangs.

I’m desperately searching for a polite excuse when Maggie claps her hands.

“What a wonderful idea! Keira would love that, wouldn’t you, darling?”

My mother mouths be brave at me, her expression clearly saying that bravery alone won’t be enough to survive one-on-one time with Bob the Piranha.

I open my mouth, ready to deliver my usual “urgent project” lie, when the dining room door bursts open. Jamison, our butler, stands there looking unusually flustered.

“Apologies for the interruption, but it’s Hamish.”

That name alone draws a collective sigh. Hamish—the most stubborn sheep in the Highlands—is both the unofficial mascot and reigning menace of the McGregor estate.

“What has he done this time?” my mother asks.

“He’s in the vegetable garden,” Jamison explains. “He’s uprooted all the beets and appears determined to move on to the cabbages.”

My mother rises immediately. I seize the opportunity like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline.

“I’ll help! I know his favorite hiding spots.”

“No, no,” Maggie insists, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. “You and Robert stay and finish your conversation. We’ll handle that stubborn creature.”

I shoot my mother a desperate look, but she only shrugs helplessly. Within seconds, they all leave, abandoning me with Robert and his predatory smile.

“Finally alone,” he murmurs, leaning closer.

My survival instincts kick in instantly.

“I need the bathroom,” I blurt, jumping to my feet and nearly knocking over my chair. “Emergency. Too much… haggis.”

I don’t wait for a response. I bolt from the room, stride down the hall—and instead of heading to the bathroom, I grab my shawl and make straight for the front door.

I need air. Space. Distance.

The cool Highland breeze greets me like an old friend, heavy with heather and damp earth. I inhale deeply, feeling the tension slowly drain from my shoulders. The sun is just beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the hills that makes everything look like it belongs in a Celtic legend.

I head away from the castle, following a narrow path to my favorite refuge—a low stone wall overlooking the valley. It’s where I come to think, to sketch restoration plans, or simply to escape the suffocating concern of my family.

I sit in my usual spot, ignoring the dampness seeping into my jeans.

Below, I can see the McKenzie distillery, its chimneys releasing thin ribbons of smoke into the clear sky.

And beside it, the parcel of land I’ve been fighting for—the perfect site for my cultural center.

A place to celebrate Highland craftsmanship and history in a way that honors tradition while making it accessible.

A piece of land the McKenzies want for themselves.

“Bloody McKenzies,” I mutter into the wind, realizing I sound exactly like my grandmother.

Footsteps approach behind me. I turn to see my mother walking toward me, a soft smile on her lips.

“You ran,” she says simply, sitting beside me.

“Tactically repositioned,” I correct with a faint grin. “How’s Hamish?”

“We cornered him near the greenhouse. He looked very pleased with himself. Honestly, I think that entire performance was his way of protesting dinner with a stranger.”

I laugh softly.

“That sheep is more protective than all the McGregors combined. I should knit him a plaid in our colors.”

“You know she’s not doing this to torture you,” my mother says gently.

I sigh.

“I’m less convinced with every new candidate. Did you see this one? He wants to turn a historic watchtower into a selfie backdrop. Selfies, Mother.”

She stifles a laugh.

“He may not be perfect.”

“I’m already worried about the orthodontic bills for his future children… Thank God I won’t be their mother.”

She squeezes my shoulder.

“Maggie is afraid you’ll miss out on happiness. She doesn’t understand that not everyone needs the same things.”

“It’s not that I’m against the idea of… you know,” I say, staring at the horizon. “I just have other priorities right now. This cultural center could really make a difference—preserve traditions that are disappearing.”

“I know, sweetheart. And it’s admirable.”

“Then why does it feel like everyone expects me to shove my ambitions in a drawer and focus on finding a husband?”

She smiles, a little wistful.

“Welcome to the eternal paradox of being a McGregor woman. Strong enough to lead a clan, but still expected to have someone beside you.”

I groan.

“Well, I can manage just fine without ‘help,’ thank you very much.”

Her gaze drifts toward the McKenzie distillery.

“You know, Maggie wasn’t always like this. She grew up in a time when women had even fewer choices. I think she’s projecting the opportunities she never had onto you.”

That makes me pause. I’ve never really thought of Maggie as anything other than the all-powerful matriarch. The idea that she was once a young woman with dreams—and frustrations—feels almost strange.

“That still doesn’t justify her trying to marry me off to every single Highlander with a kilt and a bank account,” I mutter, though with less bite.

My mother laughs softly.

“No, it doesn’t. But understanding her might help you figure out how to handle it.”

Short of suddenly getting engaged, I don’t see how—

I freeze.

The idea hits me out of nowhere. Wild. Reckless. Possibly brilliant.

Definitely dangerous.

“Keira?” my mother asks, concerned.

I don’t answer. A plan is already forming.

What if I gave my grandmother exactly what she wants?

A fiancé. Someone who would immediately shut down her matchmaking.

Voices drift toward us along the path. Maggie appears, Robert beside her, scanning the area. My body tenses, ready to bolt.

“Keira! Darling! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” my grandmother calls, her cheerfulness a little too forced. “Robert was wondering if you’d like a walk in the gardens.”

Over my dead body.

Robert steps closer, that predatory smile back in place.

“The stars will be especially bright tonight. Almost as bright as your eyes.”

I swallow a gag. That does it. Something inside me snaps.

“That’s very kind, Robert,” I say, straightening, “but I can’t.”

“Oh?” Maggie frowns. “You have plans this evening?”

“No, Grandmother. I have… permanent plans.”

“I don’t understand.”

I take a deep breath, aware of my mother’s alarmed stare.

This is insane. Reckless. Possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I do it anyway.

“What I’m trying to say is… I’m engaged.”

Maggie opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water. Robert looks like he just swallowed one of his own teeth.

“Engaged?” she finally manages. “To whom?”

I turn toward the McKenzie distillery, still visible in the fading light, and smile with a confidence I absolutely do not feel.

“To Alistair McKenzie.”

My grandmother’s strangled cry echoes across the valley—probably all the way to Edinburgh. I’ve just triggered either the biggest disaster of my life… or my most brilliant escape.

Now all I have to do is convince Alistair McKenzie to play along.

Which, all things considered, is about as likely as Hamish becoming the first sheep in space.