Chapter 9
KEIRA
How to Take Tea with the Enemy… and Live to Tell the Tale
I tug at the sleeve of my tweed jacket for what has to be the hundredth time. My reflection in the rearview mirror looks… terrified. Which is ridiculous. It’s just tea. Tea with Alistair’s parents.
My fake fiancé’s parents.
McKenzies.
Right. That explains everything.
The drive curves through perfectly manicured gardens—less wild than ours, more controlled, but undeniably beautiful in their symmetry. I pull up in front of a grand gray-stone Victorian house, all sharp lines and quiet authority. It doesn’t shout power. It simply expects it to be recognized.
Alistair is already waiting on the front steps, and against my better judgment, I notice how his sweater fits across his shoulders. For a man who embodies everything I’m supposed to stand against… he’s annoyingly well put together.
“You’re punctual,” he remarks as I step out of the car. “I value that quality in my employees.”
I shoot him a glare. “Hilarious. Truly. But I’m not your employee, McKenzie. I’m your fake fiancée—which is objectively worse.”
That infuriating dimple appears in his cheek when he smiles. “I told my parents we were coming for tea. Just the four of us.”
“Perfect,” I say, instantly relieved. “I was picturing a hostile McKenzie tribunal.”
His smile widens—and something in my stomach drops.
“I told my parents that,” he clarifies. “Unfortunately, my aunt Fiona overheard, called my uncle Ian, who informed my great-uncle Douglas, who alerted my cousin Moira, who told my sister Catriona, who just happens to be visiting…”
“You’re joking,” I say flatly.
“Welcome to the McKenzie family,” he replies with a shrug. “We may not be as loud as the McGregors, but we’re just as talented when it comes to meddling.”
For one very real second, I consider turning around and leaving.
But I’m a McGregor. We don’t run—even from an ambush.
“I should’ve brought Hamish,” I mutter.
Alistair chuckles softly. “I’m sure he would’ve been honored to offer moral support.”
His hand settles at the small of my back—warm, steady, dangerously natural—as he guides me toward the door.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs near my ear. “The worst they’ll do is poison you slowly.”
I shoot him a look. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”
“Of course. Fast poisoning would be far more concerning.”
The door opens before we even reach it.
A woman in her sixties stands there—elegant, composed, with silver threaded through her chestnut hair and eyes sharp enough to strip a person down to their secrets.
“Mother,” Alistair says, a warmth in his voice that catches me off guard. “This is Keira McGregor.”
“Mrs. McKenzie,” I say politely, extending my hand.
She ignores it and pulls me into a brief but firm embrace.
“Mary,” she corrects. “After all, you’re going to marry my son.”
She releases me, her gaze flicking to Alistair with quiet amusement.
“Or so he claims.”
“Mother…”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, waving a graceful hand. “I won’t expose your secrets. Not until I’ve determined whether this unlikely union has any chance of surviving.”
Panic spikes through me. How does she know?
“My mother assumes all engagements are doomed until proven otherwise,” Alistair cuts in smoothly. “Isn’t that right?”
“I taught history for twenty-five years,” Mary says as she leads us inside. “I recognize a strategic alliance when I see one.”
The entry hall is breathtaking—polished oak staircase, stern-faced McKenzie ancestors glaring down from oil portraits—but I barely register any of it. Voices spill in from the sitting room.
“It’s time to face the clan,” Alistair murmurs. “Don’t accept drinks from Uncle Ian, and whatever you do, don’t mention the south parcel in front of my father.”
“What else?” I whisper. “No politics? Religion? Sports?”
“Definitely not curling tournaments. Sensitive subject.”
Before I can ask why, Mary opens the doors.
“Here is the young McGregor who succeeded where so many others have failed.”
“Not that many,” Alistair mutters.
Conversation dies instantly. Six pairs of eyes swing toward me—curious, skeptical, openly wary.
A broad-shouldered man with graying hair rises slowly.
“Malcolm McKenzie,” he says, offering a firm hand. “Alistair’s father.”
His grip is crushing. His gaze sharper than Alistair’s—and far more calculating.
“Keira McGregor,” I reply, matching his grip. “A pleasure.”
“Really?” he says, brow lifting. “I was under the impression McGregors are genetically predisposed to despise anything named McKenzie.”
“Father—” Alistair starts.
I raise a hand.
“Science has made remarkable progress, Mr. McKenzie. They’ve isolated the McKenzie-hatred gene and removed mine entirely.”
Silence crashes over the room.
Then laughter explodes from the corner.
A striking woman with blazing red hair jumps to her feet.
“Oh, I like her!” she declares, striding over. “Finally, someone with teeth in this family. I’m Fiona—the one who says what everyone else is thinking.”
She grabs my shoulders and kisses both my cheeks.
“They say if you can’t get rid of the McGregors, you might as well marry one!”
“No one says that,” grumbles a stocky man with a graying beard. “We’ve said the opposite for generations.”
“And look where that’s gotten us, Ian,” she shoots back. “Still arguing over the same patch of land like it’s the Middle Ages.”
“The south parcel is not just land,” Malcolm says calmly. “It’s the key to the distillery’s future.”
I feel Alistair tense beside me.
Taboo topic. Two minutes in. Impressive.
“Perhaps we should have tea first,” a polished woman in her thirties suggests. “I’m Moira, by the way.”
Her handshake is warm, her smile genuine.
“I handle marketing and tourism. I’d love your input on our renovation plans, given your background in heritage preservation.”
“If by renovation you mean systematic destruction of two centuries of history,” mutters an elderly man by the fire.
“Great-uncle Douglas,” Alistair sighs. “Let’s not scare her off immediately.”
“On the contrary,” says a young woman who looks exactly like Alistair’s female counterpart. “If she’s joining this family, she should know what she’s walking into.”
She grins at me.
“I’m Catriona. I know all of Alistair’s embarrassing secrets. Including what happened at prom with Jessica Campbell.”
Alistair clears his throat loudly. “Is the tea ready, Mother?”
“Perfectly,” Mary replies serenely, as if chaos is her preferred atmosphere. “Everyone, sit.”
I end up on a sofa between Alistair and Moira while the others gather around. Mary pours tea with regal precision, using delicate porcelain that probably costs more than my car.
She hands me a cup with a knowing smile.
“For you, my dear. A special infusion. A family recipe.”
The liquid is darker than the others. Deeper. Almost… ominous.
“Very kind of you,” I say carefully.
“A recipe reserved for honored guests,” Malcolm adds. “Few have had the privilege.”
“And fewer have lived to tell the tale,” Catriona mutters.
Alistair nudges me.
I lift the cup, barely touch it to my lips. “Delicious.”
“You should drink it while it’s hot,” Mary insists. “The beneficial properties fade quickly.”
For the next several minutes, I deploy every distraction tactic imaginable—questions, fake sips, even a subtle attempt to swap cups with Alistair.
“Is something wrong with your tea?” Malcolm asks finally.
“Not at all,” I say quickly. “We McGregors just… savor slowly. It’s tradition.”
“Is that so?” Fiona raises a brow. “I’ve seen McGregors drink whisky like water at summer festivals.”
Cornered.
I take a real sip.
And freeze.
It’s not bitter.
It’s… incredible. Warm berries, soft spice, rich and comforting.
“It’s delicious,” I admit, genuinely stunned.
Mary smiles. “Highland berry tea with winter spices. The recipe actually comes from a McGregor. Six generations ago.”
Alistair is watching me, clearly entertained.
I shoot him a glare that promises revenge.
“So, Keira,” Malcolm says without preamble, “what are your intentions regarding my son—and, by extension, the McKenzie distillery?”
“Father,” Alistair warns.
“Marriage is the most dangerous business venture there is,” Malcolm replies. “I’m assessing risk.”
I take another sip, buying time.
“My intentions are simple. Mutual respect. Honesty. And treating our differences as strengths rather than weaknesses.”
“Very diplomatic,” Mary notes.
“It’s what I believe,” I say.
“And the distillery?” Malcolm presses. “You’ve publicly opposed our modernization.”
“I’ve questioned approaches that sacrifice authenticity for spectacle,” I answer steadily. “But I also recognize that without adaptation, traditions die. It’s about balance.”
“Words,” Ian scoffs. “McGregors are good at talking. Less so at listening.”
“And McKenzies are excellent at judging without understanding,” I snap—before I can stop myself.
Tension spikes—
Then Fiona bursts out laughing.
“She’s perfect,” she declares. “Exactly what this family needs.”
“Quality doesn’t need outside validation,” Ian mutters.
“Innovation does,” Moira counters. “Which is why someone like Keira could be valuable.”
I start to see the lines—tradition versus change, control versus evolution. And right in the middle… Alistair.
“Tell me, Keira,” Douglas says suddenly, “do you know the story of the Golden Thistle?”
“The curling trophy?” I ask—
Too late.
His face darkens.
“The trophy stolen by McGregor treachery.”
“Great-uncle—” Alistair starts.
“Your future father-in-law distracted our thrower by asking about his dead mother!”
I blink. “My father would never—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mary cuts in smoothly. “That’s the past.”
Her glance at Malcolm is pointed.
“More pressing matters,” he agrees. “Such as where you plan to live after the wedding.”
I hesitate.
“We haven’t decided,” I admit.
“We’re looking for something that suits us both,” Alistair adds, his hand settling over mine. “Somewhere between our family lands.”
“The south parcel, perhaps?” Malcolm suggests.
There it is.
“It belongs to the McGregors,” I say calmly. “And it’s not for sale.”
“It could be a wedding gift,” he presses. “A symbol of reconciliation.”
“Father,” Alistair says firmly, “we’ll make our own decisions.”
I glance at him, surprised—and grateful.
“Our relationship isn’t a Trojan horse for business,” I add.
Catriona whistles softly. “She figured you out in under an hour. Impressive.”
Malcolm studies me differently now—not as a curiosity, but as an equal opponent.
“Do you play chess, Miss McGregor?”
“Since I was six.”
“We should play before you leave.”
Not a suggestion.
“Gladly.”
A phone rings. Moira stands, apologizing—journalists at the distillery.
Ian follows her out, muttering about Americans and whisky.
When they’re gone, Mary turns to me.
“I hear you have an interest in Victorian architecture.”
“I do,” I say, surprised.
“I have a few books you might enjoy,” she says, rising. “Alistair, keep your father occupied.”
One look silences him.
I follow her through quiet corridors, bracing for interrogation.
Instead, when the library door closes behind us, her expression softens.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “No interrogation. Not today.”
The room is stunning—floor-to-ceiling books, rolling ladder, worn leather chairs.
“I could live here,” I breathe.
“It’s my refuge,” she says. “Forty years married to a stubborn McKenzie will do that.”
Then she studies me—sharp, but not unkind.
“Whatever arrangement you have with my son… I hope you understand what you’re stepping into. The McKenzies do nothing halfway. Including falling in love.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“Mary—”
“Don’t deny it,” she says gently. “I’m not here to trap you. Just to warn you—pretending has a way of becoming real.”
My chest tightens.
“He may seem confident,” she adds softly, “but Alistair’s heart can break like anyone else’s.”
The thought hits harder than it should.
She hands me an old, beautifully bound book.
“Gothic Revival in the Scottish Highlands. First edition.”
I stare at it, stunned. “How did you—”
“I did my research,” she says with a small smile. “Unlike Malcolm, I don’t assume every McGregor ambition is a threat. Your cultural center could benefit everyone.”
Her hand rests lightly on my arm.
“And now, we should return before they assume I’ve locked you in a cupboard.”
At the door, she pauses.
“Oh—and when you play chess with Malcolm… watch for the queen sacrifice.”
I nod, grateful—and unsettled.
Because if Mary sees through us this easily…
Who else does?
And more importantly— why doesn’t the idea of this arrangement becoming real scare her… nearly as much as it should scare me?