Chapter 4
KEIRA
How to make a bad idea even worse
I’m sitting in my car at the entrance of McKenzie Distillery, seriously questioning my sanity.
Completely. Utterly. Beyond any hope of recovery.
My heart is racing, and I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have turned white.
But it’s too late to turn back now. I need Alistair McKenzie to get me out of this mess—ridiculous as that sounds.
“You can do this, Keira,” I mutter under my breath. “He’s just an arrogant McKenzie. You’ve faced him at heritage council meetings. You can survive one private conversation…”
A loud bleat cuts me off, and I jerk so hard I hit my head on the roof of the car.
I spin around—and there he is.
Hamish. Sitting comfortably in the back seat. Chewing what looks suspiciously like part of my cultural center proposal.
“What the—how did you—HAMISH!”
The sheep stares at me with complete indifference, like this is perfectly normal. Like he fully intended to accompany me to the most important meeting of my life.
“No. No, no, no. This is not happening.”
I glance at the clock. 9:57 a.m. In three minutes, I’m supposed to walk into Alistair McKenzie’s office and propose the most absurd arrangement of my life—and now I have a stowaway sheep.
My brain scrambles through options. I don’t have time to go back to the castle. No time to call Callum. And how exactly would I explain being here to my brother anyway?
I’m so stressed I didn’t notice a sheep in my own car.
I let out a slow breath and turn back to him, fixing him with my most serious look.
“Listen to me, you demonic ball of wool,” I growl, pointing a finger at him. “You stay here. You do not move. You do not make a sound. Or I swear on everything sacred in the Highlands, I will turn you into a rug for the front hall. Understood?”
Hamish looks at me with what I swear is a smug little smile. As if to say, we both know you won’t do a thing, human.
I sigh, push open the door, and step out.
The McKenzie distillery rises in front of me—sleek, modern, all glass and steel reflecting the rolling hills. Unlike the McGregor castle with its ancient stone and stubborn tradition, this place feels… contemporary. Elegant, even. I hate that I kind of like it.
I check my reflection in the car window, adjust my jacket, and try to arrange my face into something professional. Behind the glass, Hamish stares back at me, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I mean it. Stay.”
I back away slowly, keeping my eyes on him until the last second—then turn toward the entrance… and immediately trip over the single step leading to the glass door.
My handbag goes flying, smacking loudly against the glass in front of me. I somehow manage to stay upright and scramble to gather my things.
The receptionist inside offers me a polite smile. There is absolutely no chance she didn’t see that.
I sneak a glance over my shoulder—no sign of Hamish. Good.
Straightening, I step inside.
“Hello. I’m Keira McGregor. I have a meeting with Alistair McKenzie.”
Her smile flickers—just slightly—at my name. Of course. A McGregor here is about as welcome as a vegetarian in a butcher shop.
“Of course, Miss McGregor. Mr. McKenzie is expecting you. Please follow me.”
She leads me down a corridor lined with black-and-white photographs of the distillery through the years. I notice, with mild irritation, that several McGregors appear in those images—always positioned just slightly behind the impeccably dressed McKenzies. Typical. Even their history is curated.
She knocks on a door at the end.
“Miss McGregor is here, sir.”
“Send her in,” comes a voice I recognize instantly.
The office is exactly what I expected—spacious, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the hills… and, of course, a clear view of McGregor castle in the distance. Message received, McKenzie. Always watching.
Alistair rises from his chair.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in a suit that was definitely tailored for him.
There’s something about him—something people would call magnetic if they’re being polite, intimidating if they’re being honest. His slightly tousled dark hair and carefully maintained stubble soften the formality just enough to make it worse.
“Keira McGregor,” he says, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “What a surprise to see you on my territory without a petition in hand.”
I return the smile, just as fake.
“Saving ink, McKenzie. Your ridiculous ideas are getting expensive to protest.”
He laughs—short, almost genuine.
“Have a seat. Coffee? Tea? Whisky? Though ten in the morning might be a bit early—even for a McGregor.”
“Coffee,” I reply, sitting. “Black. Like the soul of anyone who wants to turn our heritage into a selfie backdrop.”
His eyebrow lifts, but he doesn’t comment. He presses a button.
“Martha, a black coffee for Miss McGregor. And bring me the file on the southern parcel.”
I frown.
“I’m not here to talk about the southern parcel.”
“No?” he says, folding his hands on the desk. “That’s usually the only reason a McGregor would voluntarily cross this threshold. Unless you’ve come to admire our ‘Disneyland aesthetic,’ as you so eloquently described it.”
I inhale slowly. Stay calm. Focus.
“I have a proposal for you—”
The door opens. Martha enters with my coffee and a thick file, which she places in front of him.
He opens it casually, as if whatever I’m about to say is secondary.
Before I can continue, he spreads architectural plans across the desk.
“Before you begin, take a look. Our vision for the new visitor center. Designed by Jamison Reid. Think of it as a harmony between tradition and modernity.”
Against my will, I look.
It’s… not terrible. The structure follows the natural curves of the land, uses local materials. Still too commercial for my taste—but better than I expected.
“This is for the southern parcel, I assume.”
“Exactly,” he says, satisfied. “The perfect location for an immersive experience that—”
“That will turn our heritage into a theme park,” I cut in. “Don’t you see how this ‘immersive experience’ strips the place of its authenticity?”
He leans forward, elbows on the desk.
“And your dusty museum will turn it into a mausoleum no one visits,” he shoots back. “Authenticity without an audience is just a forgotten relic, Keira.”
I ignore the way my name sounds coming from him.
“People don’t need touchscreens and virtual tastings to appreciate heritage. What you’re proposing is mass tourism that cheapens our culture.”
He shakes his head, frustration clear.
“What I’m proposing is accessibility. Not just for a select few who already understand it. The McKenzies have been making whisky since 1793—and every generation adapted. You don’t preserve something by locking it away.”
I push to my feet.
“Adapting doesn’t mean selling out! Your visitor center will bring in crowds who take two photos, buy a keychain, and leave without understanding anything real about distilling!”
He stands too—and suddenly I’m very aware of how tall he is.
“Better tourists with keychains than empty buildings falling apart from lack of funding,” he counters. “Your romantic vision isn’t economically viable—and you know it.”
We’re so deep in the argument that I don’t notice his attention shift—until he frowns slightly, looking past my shoulder.
“Is that… a sheep eating my roses?”
I roll my eyes.
“Nice try, McKenzie. Your roses can wait until we—”
“No,” he says, pointing toward the window. “There is actually a sheep outside.”
I turn.
And my heart stops.
There, in the middle of the pristine distillery garden, is Hamish. Happily devouring what used to be a very expensive-looking rose bush.
“Of course there’s a sheep,” I groan. “That’s Hamish.”
Alistair stares at me.
“You came here… with your sheep?”
“It’s a long story. And he was not supposed to be there. He was in my car!”
“In your car,” he repeats dryly. “Well, that explains everything.”
I don’t have time to respond because Hamish chooses that exact moment to yank an entire rose off its stem and chew it triumphantly.
Alistair bolts for the door.
“That garden cost twenty thousand pounds!”
I race after him, cursing Hamish, the McKenzies, and my brilliant fake engagement plan, which somehow just became even worse.
We rush through the corridor under Martha’s stunned gaze and burst outside.
Hamish has already moved on—to what looks like a very delicate flowerbed.
“Hamish! Stop!” I shout, lunging toward him.
He sidesteps with surprising agility and trots off, leaving me to trip and land flat in the flowers.
Perfect. Just perfect.
From my position in the dirt, I see a pair of perfectly polished shoes stop beside my head.
I look up.
Alistair is staring down at me, something flickering in his expression.
Amusement?
Impossible. There is nothing remotely fun about Alistair McKenzie.
“Need a hand?” he asks, offering one.
I ignore it and push myself up, brushing dirt off my clothes with as much dignity as I can salvage.
“Where did he go?” I mutter.
A shout answers that question.
“He’s heading for the aging warehouse!” Alistair calls, already moving.
I take off after him.
“If Hamish gets into the casks—”
“Don’t even think about it!” he snaps over his shoulder. “Some of those whiskies are over twenty years old!”
We round a corner and find three employees attempting to corner Hamish. He watches them calmly, like he’s calculating his next move.
“Easy now…” one of them murmurs. “Come here…”
Hamish pauses. Decides.
And bolts straight for the open warehouse door.
“NOT THE CASKS!” Alistair and I shout in unison.
Too late.
Hamish disappears inside.
For a split second, we all freeze.
Then we run after him.
Because one thing is now painfully clear—
My fake engagement negotiation just turned into absolute chaos. And knowing Hamish… this is only the beginning.