Chapter 5
KEIRA
Making a deal with the devil… in a kilt
“Just so we’re clear, Keira—if your sheep pees everywhere, I’m sending you the cleaning bill!”
I wisely refrain from pointing out that Hamish is capable of far worse than that—and that a little puddle would be the least of our problems.
We’re sprinting like lunatics through rows of priceless aging casks, chasing a sixty-five-kilo sheep with the determination of a tiny, wool-covered demon.
“Over here!” Alistair shouts, pointing down an aisle to the right.
I catch a flash of beige wool disappearing behind a row of barrels labeled 2003. We race after him, our footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete floor.
“We need to corner him against the back wall,” Alistair says between breaths. “You go left, I’ll go right.”
I nod and slip into the aisle, slowing as I scan the dim spaces between the casks.
“Hamish,” I call, aiming for firm but non-threatening. “Get over here right now, you walking disaster.”
A faint scratching sound comes from the far end. I move carefully—and there he is, sniffing a barrel with great interest.
Miraculously, nothing seems damaged.
Yet.
Alistair appears on the other side, moving just as cautiously. Our eyes meet over Hamish’s woolly back. Silent agreement.
On three.
One. Two. Thr—
Hamish chooses that exact moment to spin around.
We both lunge—and slam straight into each other as the sheep darts between our legs with the agility of a professional rugby player.
I hit the floor hard, with Alistair partially on top of me.
For a second, everything freezes.
His face is inches from mine. His eyes wide. Mine probably are too.
“Sorry,” he mutters, pushing himself up quickly and offering his hand.
This time, I take it. His grip is warm, steady, and he pulls me up like I weigh nothing.
“Your sheep is an escape artist,” he grumbles, brushing dust off his suit.
“My sheep? I refuse all responsibility for that four-legged menace. He belongs to my brother.”
A loud crash—followed by a triumphant bleat—cuts me off.
“Hamish!” I yell, already running.
We burst into a small storage room. Buckets overturned. Tools scattered. Total chaos.
Hamish stands in the middle of it all, looking deeply pleased with himself—and chewing what appears to be a work glove.
This time, Alistair doesn’t hesitate. He dives.
He wraps both arms around Hamish before the sheep can react. Hamish lets out an outraged bleat and thrashes like a maniac.
“A little help would be nice!” Alistair grunts.
I grab Hamish’s front legs.
“You have no idea how much you’re going to regret this,” I mutter into his ear. “Your grazing privileges are officially revoked.”
Hamish looks at me like that’s adorable.
Together, we haul him out of the warehouse and into the loading yard behind the building. The main gate is closed.
“No more escape routes,” Alistair says, slightly out of breath.
Hamish stares at us, utterly unimpressed.
Alistair drags a hand through his now thoroughly disheveled hair. “I think this is the first time a McGregor has caused this much damage in my distillery… and it’s not even a human.”
I can’t help it—I laugh.
“This is nothing. You’ve clearly never heard of the Great Incident of 1987. My grandfather ‘accidentally’ dumped a full barrel of malt onto your grandfather’s shoes during a tasting.”
Alistair blinks—then smiles.
And that’s when it hits me.
Alistair McKenzie is… actually kind of attractive.
Apparently, when he’s not being insufferable, he’s dangerously close to charming.
“I have heard that story,” he says. “My father wore those shoes for three months afterward. Claimed they’d been improved by McGregor malt.”
We both laugh at the same time.
A McKenzie and a McGregor—laughing together.
It feels… unreal.
He straightens, brushing off his suit. “I think we’ve earned a drink. Even if it’s only ten-thirty.”
“I have zero objections to that.”
By the time we make it back inside, my hair is falling out of its neat bun and my blouse is halfway untucked. I try to fix it discreetly.
“Martha is going to have a heart attack,” Alistair mutters as an employee stares at us wide-eyed.
“Not until she sees the storage room,” I shoot back.
We step into his office. He shuts the door and heads straight for a dark wood cabinet, pulling out a bottle and two crystal glasses.
“I save this for special occasions,” he says, pouring generously. “And surviving a McGregor sheep definitely qualifies.”
He hands me a glass.
The amber liquid glows as I swirl it, bringing it to my nose.
“What is this?” I ask.
“A limited edition. Twenty-five-year single malt, aged in Oloroso sherry casks. Only five hundred bottles.”
I roll my eyes slightly.
“Spare me the sales pitch. I’m not one of your tourists.”
He smiles. “Taste first. Judge after.”
I take a sip.
And… damn.
Rich. Deep. Dried fruit, honey, spice, a whisper of peat smoke, and a finish that lingers like heat under the skin.
It’s—painfully—one of the best whiskies I’ve ever had.
“Well?” he asks, already knowing.
“It’s… not terrible.”
He laughs—warm, real—and something about it catches me off guard.
“I’ll take that as glowing praise.”
He settles into one of the leather chairs and gestures for me to do the same. I sit, turning the glass slowly in my hand.
Time to get to the point.
“I’m not here to talk about the land,” I say. “Or to unleash livestock in your distillery.”
“I figured,” he replies, watching me carefully. “Martha said it was urgent. And personal.”
I take a breath.
“I need your help, Alistair.”
His eyebrows lift—just slightly. Maybe because I used his first name. Maybe because of what I said.
“I did something… impulsive,” I continue. “Something that involves you.”
And then I tell him everything.
Maggie. The endless suitors. Robert the human nightmare. And my brilliant—catastrophic—lie about being engaged to him.
His expression shifts from surprise… to disbelief… to unmistakable amusement.
“Let me get this straight,” he says when I’m done. “You told your family—your grandmother, who once called my grandfather a soulless capitalist vulture—that you and I are engaged?”
I wince. “That’s… a fairly accurate summary.”
“And now you want me to pretend to be your fiancé to save you from Maggie McGregor’s matchmaking?”
“Yes.”
“Me. A McKenzie.”
I sigh. “You were not my first choice. But that’s exactly why it works. It’s so absurd no one will question it.”
I pause, then add quietly, “It’s the perfect shock to buy peace.”
He stands and walks to the window, looking out over the hills.
I hold my breath.
He’s going to laugh. Mock me. Tell this story for the next fifty years—
“This is probably the most ridiculous proposal I’ve ever heard,” he says.
My chest tightens.
“I’m in.”
“…What?”
I blink at him.
“I said I’m in,” he repeats, turning back. “I could use some stability in my public image right now.”
He explains quickly—nervous investors after a messy breakup, a board concerned about his reputation, a father obsessed with appearances.
“So,” I say slowly, “you play my fiancé, and I get my grandmother off my back. In return, you get a respectable image to reassure your investors?”
“That’s the idea. But I have conditions.”
Of course he does.
“I’m listening.”
“First, I want you to redesign parts of the distillery—our shop, visitor areas. You have an eye for preserving heritage while making it accessible. We need that.”
I blink.
“You want me to work for you?”
“I want your expertise,” he corrects.
…Okay. That’s unexpectedly flattering.
“Fine. But I have conditions too.”
“I assumed as much.”
“You help me convince the heritage council to support my cultural center.”
He considers.
“Possible. But not on the southern parcel.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You thought it loud enough,” he cuts in.
I narrow my eyes. “We’ll see.”
“Second?”
“These ‘engagements’ last three months. Not a day longer.”
“That works. Then a clean, mutual breakup. No drama.”
“Exactly.”
“Third condition,” he adds. “Your sheep is permanently banned from my distillery.”
I smile.
“Trust me, that was already the plan. And my final condition—you never mention turning the washhouse into a jacuzzi in front of my grandmother again.”
“Deal.”
He leans back slightly. “What about the… practical side?”
I frown. “Practical?”
“Public affection,” he says. “People will expect it.”
My heart stutters.
“I… minimal, but convincing,” I say. “Holding hands. Maybe an arm around me. Nothing excessive.”
“Of course.”
Silence falls.
And suddenly it hits me—I just agreed to pretend to be in love with my biggest rival.
What could possibly go wrong?
“We should write this down,” I say quickly. “A simple agreement.”
“Good idea. I’ll have my lawyer—”
“No.” I shake my head. “No lawyers. No one else knows. This stays between us.”
He studies me, then nods.
“Between us.”
He holds out his hand.
I take it.
His palm is warm, his grip firm—and something about the way his fingers close around mine sends a faint shiver up my spine.
I let go a little too quickly and check the time.
“I should go.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
We head back through the building in silence. The receptionist watches us with open curiosity—probably wondering what disaster just unfolded.
“So,” he murmurs as we reach the entrance, “how are we announcing this?”
“My mother and grandmother already know. My brother finds out tonight.”
“And my family?”
“That’s your problem,” I say, grimacing. “But we should coordinate our story.”
“I’ll call you tonight. We’ll align details.”
Outside, my car waits.
“Let’s hope our families don’t start sharpening claymores,” he says, opening the door for me.
I smirk. “If they do, I’m standing behind you.”
He laughs—and I hate how much I like the sound.
“Tonight, then.”
I get in, start the engine, and drive away. In the rearview mirror, I see him still standing there, watching me leave.
What have I just done?
And more importantly—how am I going to explain this to Callum?
I drive back in a daze, my mind spinning, until I reach the gates of the McGregor estate.
And then—
I slam on the brakes.
“Oh no,” I whisper, turning slowly toward the empty back seat.
“Hamish?”
I stare at the car.
Then I burst out laughing.
I left the sheep.
At the distillery.