Chapter 7
ALISTAIR
How to Survive a Dinner with the McGregors Without Losing Your Dignity (or Your Head)
I stand in the doorway, bouquet in hand and a carefully polished diplomatic smile fixed in place, assessing the situation like a general surveying a battlefield.
Across from me, Callum McGregor advances with the quiet, implacable determination of a Highland bear guarding its territory.
Said animal may have vanished from Scotland centuries ago, but at this point, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised if one strolled in behind him.
Over his shoulder, Keira shoots me a look that wavers somewhere between panic and disbelief. The rest of the McGregor clan appears frozen in what could only be described as a living painting titled Scottish Shock.
And then, shattering the fragile tension—Rosita appears.
My sheep.
Inside the McGregor house.
And, as if that weren’t enough, Hamish follows… with a rose clenched between his teeth.
For one fleeting second, I seriously question whether that pre-dinner whisky hit harder than expected.
“Rosita?” I blurt.
She turns her sweet pink nose toward me, recognizes me instantly, and lets out a delighted bleat.
“You know this animal?” Maggie McGregor asks, peering at me over her tortoiseshell glasses.
“She’s mine,” I say. “Well—technically, she belongs to the McKenzie distillery.”
“Hold on,” Callum cuts in, momentarily thrown off his warpath. “You’re telling me that sheep is a McKenzie?”
“I didn’t run a DNA test, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply dryly. “But yes—she’s from our land.”
“Fantastic,” Keira mutters, tipping her head back. “Now even the livestock is getting involved.”
I don’t know if it’s the absurdity or the tension snapping, but a laugh escapes me. Callum looks at me like I’ve lost my mind—which, admittedly, might not be far from the truth. After all, I’ve willingly walked into the lion’s den pretending to be engaged to his sister.
“If I’d known the whole family would be here,” I add lightly, offering the bouquet to Keira with a small bow, “I’d have brought more flowers.”
She steps forward to take them, her fingers brushing mine—brief, accidental, electric.
“What a surprise,” she says through a tight smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”
Her tone clearly translates to: What the hell are you doing here, you idiot?
“I thought it was time I officially met your family,” I answer smoothly, despite the tension coiled in my chest. “Especially after babysitting Hamish all afternoon.”
“What was Hamish doing at the McKenzie place?” Callum demands, his confusion deepening.
“It’s a long story involving rose bushes and a heroic chase through my distillery,” I say, stepping closer and extending my hand. “Good evening, Callum.”
He stares at my hand like it’s coated in nettles before finally gripping it hard enough to crush whiskey stones.
“I’d say I’m glad to see you,” he mutters, “but my grandmother taught me not to lie at the dinner table.”
“Callum!” Jane scolds, elbowing him. “Where are your manners?”
“Probably in the same place as my sister’s sanity,” he shoots back, eyes still locked on me.
“Don’t worry, Jane,” I say with an easy smile. “I was warned the welcome would be… warm.”
“Well then,” she replies with forced brightness that somehow makes her even more likable, “why don’t we all sit down? Mrs. Finley’s roast is wonderful, and it would be a shame to let it go cold while we… get acquainted.”
“Excellent idea,” Keira says quickly, clinging to the suggestion like a lifeline.
Meanwhile, Rosita has taken it upon herself to circle the table, apparently inspecting each guest. She pauses in front of Hamish, who now lingers at the dining room entrance, looking—astonishingly—shy for a sheep usually so bold.
“Your sheep is remarkably well-behaved,” Jane observes as Rosita begins strutting in front of him like she’s on a runway.
“Can’t say the same for the humans in her family,” Callum mutters.
“Callum McGregor!” his mother snaps. “That is not how we welcome guests—even McKenzies.”
“Glad to see your opinion of my family has improved since the well incident of 1978.”
“You know about that?” Maggie asks, addressing me for the first time since I arrived.
“The legends of our feud are passed down through the generations,” I reply, taking the seat Jane indicates—strategically placed between Keira and Maggie, directly across from Callum. “I assume it’s the same on your side.”
Jamison, whom I recognize as the McGregors’ longtime butler, sets a plate before me, his expression about as readable as ancient Gaelic script.
“Thank you, Jamison,” I say politely. “It’s good to see you again.”
One eyebrow lifts almost imperceptibly. “Is it, sir?”
“The last time we met, I was six and trying to climb your back wall to retrieve my kite.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Ah. The boy in blue overalls. You landed in the bramble bush.”
“I still have the scar,” I confirm with a grin.
“And here you are again,” he notes evenly. “Still crossing boundaries, I see.”
With that, he disappears, leaving me facing a table full of McGregors studying me like a rare specimen in a museum.
Behind us, Hamish seems to have decided intimidation isn’t his style. With the rose still between his teeth, he begins circling Rosita in what I can only describe as a sheep’s version of confident swagger. She watches, blinking slowly, clearly impressed.
“I’ve never seen Hamish act like this,” Keira murmurs. “He usually just knocks things over and chews on whatever he finds.”
“Rosita has that effect on the entire flock,” I say. “She’s… one of a kind.”
“Like her owner, I suppose,” Callum mutters, sawing into his meat with the intensity of a medieval interrogation.
“I wouldn’t dare compare myself to Rosita’s natural elegance,” I reply modestly. “Though I do strive to maintain a certain standard when it comes to destroying gardens.”
That earns a small laugh from Jane—and even the ghost of a smile from Maggie.
“So, Alistair,” Isobel begins, clearly attempting diplomacy, “Keira tells us your engagement is fairly recent.”
“It is,” I say.
I rest my hand lightly over Keira’s. It’s meant to look affectionate. She responds with a subtle warning squeeze. Across the table, Callum’s grip tightens on his cutlery like he’s imagining it’s my throat.
“We chose to keep things quiet at first,” I continue, “given the… colorful history between our families.”
“Colorful,” Callum repeats. “Like the blood-red of McGregor claymores after meeting a McKenzie?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of McGregor green—with envy—when our whisky won gold at the Edinburgh Festival in 1952,” I reply pleasantly. “But yours has more flair.”
“And how exactly,” Callum presses slowly, “did two people who could barely stand each other a few weeks ago end up engaged?”
I feel Keira’s gaze on me, tense as if I’m defusing a bomb.
“It’s quite simple,” I say, taking a bite of the excellent roast. “We discovered that beneath our disagreements… we shared a passion.”
“For preserving Scottish heritage,” Keira adds smoothly.
“Exactly. Our visions differ—but they complement each other. Keira has a deep understanding of tradition and history that I admire immensely.”
“And Alistair brings a pragmatic perspective on how those traditions can evolve without being lost,” she continues, playing her role perfectly.
“Fascinating,” Maggie murmurs, eyes sharp as she studies us. “And this realization happened during one of your legendary council arguments?”
“Not exactly,” I say with a slight smile. “Afterward. We were both so frustrated, we kept arguing in the parking lot.”
“It was raining,” Keira adds, unexpectedly romantic.
“And she was so passionate defending that old washhouse that I couldn’t help but…”
I pause, glancing at her as she suddenly looks wary.
“…invite her to visit my distillery,” I finish, giving her a reassuring wink. “To show her that tradition and modernity can coexist.”
“How practical,” Callum drawls. “Nothing sparks romance like a distillery tour.”
“Depends on the distillery,” Lachlan mutters.
“You’d be surprised,” Jane adds with a mischievous smile. “I remember a certain cellar visit where you—”
“Jane!” Callum snaps, flushing. “That’s not—we’re talking about Keira and… McKenzie.”
“Alistair,” I correct gently. “Since we’ll be brothers-in-law, we might as well use first names.”
The phrase hits him like a lightning strike. He chokes, coughing violently while Jane thumps his back, shooting me a look halfway between reprimand and amusement.
“My apologies,” I say, feigning contrition. “Perhaps a bit premature.”
“A bit,” Isobel agrees, though her gaze on me has shifted—more curious now. “But I admire your optimism.”
At that moment, the sheep reclaim center stage. Determined to impress, Hamish launches into what can only be described as an awkward courtship dance, spinning while clamping the rose between his teeth. Rosita watches, clearly entertained, letting out soft, encouraging bleats.
“I suppose our families aren’t the only ones forming unexpected alliances tonight,” I remark.
“The world’s gone mad,” Callum mutters. “McKenzies at our table, sheep flirting in our dining room… what’s next? Englishmen serving haggis?”
“Don’t blaspheme at the table,” Maggie scolds, though her eyes sparkle. “The young McKenzie is at least entertaining.”
“High praise,” I say with a respectful nod. “Coming from the renowned Maggie McGregor, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
“Oh?” she says, visibly pleased. “You know my reputation?”
“Who doesn’t in the Highlands? Your 1989 council speech on preserving traditional distilling methods is legendary. My grandfather spoke of it for decades—with equal parts admiration and fear.”
She laughs—a bright, youthful sound that catches me off guard.
“Ah yes, that speech. I threatened to turn modern stills into chamber pots.”
“An image that shaped an entire generation of distillers,” I say. “Including my father.”
Her expression lights up.
“Really? I thought the McKenzies had gone fully industrial.”
“Not entirely,” I reply, sensing an opening. “Our award-winning whisky—Soul of the Highlands—is still made using traditional methods.”
“I’ve never tasted it,” she admits. “I swore forty years ago never to let a drop of McKenzie pass my lips.”
“A noble vow,” I say, slipping a silver flask from my inner pocket, “but perhaps tonight warrants… a special exception?”
Callum’s glare could melt steel, but Maggie reaches for it without hesitation.
“Hand it over, young man. If my granddaughter intends to marry a McKenzie, I should at least know if your whisky is worthy of her.”
She pours, studies the amber liquid like a seasoned expert, inhales, then takes a measured sip.
Silence falls. Even the sheep pause.
“Hm,” she says at last.
“Well?” I ask, surprising myself with how much I care.
“Let’s call it… unexpectedly interesting,” she replies, a hint of a smile forming. “For a McKenzie whisky, it’s remarkably respectable.”
From Maggie McGregor, that might as well be a standing ovation.
“Grandmother!” Callum protests. “You just drank McKenzie whisky!”
“And survived,” she shoots back. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not as if I made a deal with the devil. Though…”
She eyes me with mischief.
“The rumors about a dark pact for that vanilla note—any truth to them?”
“I’m afraid it’s just eighteen years in American oak barrels,” I say. “Much less exciting than a demonic bargain.”
“Most secrets are disappointingly mundane,” she says wisely. “Like arranged marriages.”
The pointed look she sends Keira and me nearly makes me choke on my wine. There’s no way she knows… and yet, it feels like she’s reading straight through me.
Dinner continues in waves of tension and surprising normalcy. Jane proves an invaluable ally, skillfully redirecting conversation whenever Callum gears up for another interrogation. Meanwhile, Hamish and Rosita’s bizarre courtship adds a surreal backdrop to the evening.
At one point, Hamish attempts to present his rose. Unfortunately, enthusiasm gets the better of him—he trips on the rug, sending the flower flying straight into the gravy… which promptly lands on Callum’s kilt.
“By all the saints of the Highlands!” he roars, leaping to his feet.
“We should get the animals out,” I say quickly, rising as the sheep scatter.
“Callum, for heaven’s sake,” Jane sighs. “It’s just gravy. And Hamish is the culprit—not Alistair.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he trained that sheep for sabotage,” Callum mutters, though he takes the napkin she offers.
“If I were orchestrating sabotage,” I reply pleasantly, “I’d aim higher than your kilt. Perhaps a dramatic haggis explosion?”
Keira shoots me a warning look—but Callum lets out a reluctant snort.
“A McKenzie with a sense of humor,” he says, dabbing at his kilt. “Another first.”
“I’m afraid evolution is unstoppable,” I say lightly. “We adapt…”
His gaze locks onto mine.
“Or we die.”