Chapter 14
KEIRA
The Subtle Art of an Apology That Gets Worse with Every Word
Time stands still. Or at least, that’s what it feels like as I lie sprawled all over Alistair, in a position that would make my grandmother Maggie blush all the way to the roots of her silver hair.
Our faces are so close I can feel his warm breath against my cheeks. His blue eyes—usually brimming with arrogant confidence—are wide with surprise… and filled with something else I refuse to name. Something that mirrors exactly what I felt in that dark hallway just before we fell.
My brain is racing.
He was about to kiss me.
Alistair McKenzie—my sworn enemy, my fake fiancé, my temporary business partner—was about to kiss me. And worse, for a split second, I’d been tempted to let him.
“I… uh…” he starts, his voice rough in a way I’ve never heard before.
That snaps me back to reality. I bolt upright, nearly kneeing him in a very unfortunate place in the process, and scramble away from him like he’s suddenly caught fire.
“We found the archives!” I blurt, way too brightly, carefully avoiding his gaze as he gets to his feet.
“Technically, the archives found us,” he corrects, brushing off his pants.
I take a deep breath and finally risk a glance his way. He looks… normal. Like he didn’t just almost kiss me in a shadowy corridor of my family’s ancestral castle. Like my heart isn’t pounding for reasons I absolutely refuse to examine.
“Welcome to the McGregor inner sanctum,” I declare, sweeping an arm dramatically around the room in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Centuries of secrets, scandals, and fiercely guarded shortbread recipes.”
Alistair looks around, something close to reverence in his expression.
The archive room is vast and imposing, with towering oak shelves stretching to the ceiling.
Leather-bound volumes, yellowed parchments, and metal boxes holding God-knows-what secrets fill every inch of space.
A large wooden table dominates the center, surrounded by chairs worn smooth by generations of studious McGregors.
“It’s impressive. Ours don’t have this kind of character.”
A flicker of unexpected pride warms my chest. The McKenzie archives might have cutting-edge catalog systems and climate control, but nothing beats the living history soaked into these walls.
“Thank you for trusting me,” he adds more quietly.
Something in his voice makes me turn toward him. He’s looking at me with a disarming sincerity that catches me completely off guard.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, McKenzie,” I shoot back, suddenly uncomfortable with the intensity of the moment. “You’re not the first sworn enemy to set foot in these archives.”
“Really?”
“No. Actually, you are. But it sounded better that way.”
He laughs, and I realize—unexpectedly—that I like that sound. Alistair’s laugh is warm, real.
“I think we’ve earned a drink,” I announce.
I head to the bar tucked along one wall and return with a bottle and two glasses. Alistair pours a small measure of amber liquid into each.
“This bottle comes from my great-grandfather’s private collection,” I explain. “It was never commercialized.”
“What makes it so special?”
I hand him a glass, our fingers brushing briefly as he takes it.
“The barley used for this whisky was grown on land that sits exactly on the border between our two estates. It’s an equal blend—McKenzie and McGregor. I had to dig for a while to find it hidden in the back of our reserve.”
He stares at the glass, stunned.
“That’s impossible. Our families would never have collaborated on whisky.”
“That’s what I would’ve said too—before reading the documents you showed me. Shall we?”
He lifts the glass to his lips with slight hesitation. I do the same.
Sharing a drink with Alistair, here in the McGregor archives, feels strangely intimate. Almost forbidden.
The first sip surprises me. It’s complex, rich—notes of honey and peat, layered with an unexpected softness and a depth I’ve never tasted before, not even in the finest whiskies.
“It’s incredible,” I murmur.
“This whisky proves that McKenzie and McGregor can create something extraordinary together… when we’re not busy hating each other.”
There’s something almost vulnerable in his voice, and when I look up, I realize he’s watching me closely, as if my reaction matters more than it should.
“How did you find out it existed?” he asks.
“Just a gut feeling. Apparently, this collaboration was a well-kept secret—even within our own families. Kind of like us.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Alistair studies me for a long moment, then raises his glass. “To the improbable.”
I clink mine against his, the crystal chime soft in the hushed stillness of the archives.
“So,” I say after a beat, forcing us back to our original goal, “those documents about the treasure—where do we start?”
The next few hours blur into a haze of research and fascinating discoveries. We uncover multiple references to a collaboration between our families in the early 19th century, along with cryptic mentions of Elspeth McGregor, who seems to have played a crucial role in our clans’ shared history.
“Look at this,” Alistair says, handing me an old leather-bound journal. “Dated 1806, written by Hamish McGregor. He explicitly refers to Archibald McKenzie as his ‘friend and partner in the whisky venture.’”
“And here—he talks about Elspeth and how she helped reconcile them after their falling-out.”
“Who was this Elspeth?” Alistair asks, leaning in so close his shoulder brushes mine.
“From what I can tell, she was Hamish’s sister. And she seems to have been very close to Archibald.”
Alistair arches a suggestive brow, and I roll my eyes.
“Seriously, McKenzie? You see romance everywhere?”
“Listen to this,” he insists, reading aloud. “‘E. spent the day again at the border of our lands. She claims to be watching the barley, but I know she waits for A. The two believe themselves discreet, but their glances speak louder than Uncle Fergus’s bagpipes.’”
I go quiet, processing.
“So… a McGregor and a McKenzie… together?”
“Looks like it. And if these documents are accurate, they created something together. That ‘treasure’ the journals mention might be connected to them.”
“Or it could be this whisky. A secret recipe they developed?”
“Maybe—but why all the secrecy around a simple recipe? And why the mention of dividing artifacts between the families after their dispute?”
I’m about to answer when the archive door swings open.
Alistair and I freeze like deer in headlights.
My mother stands in the doorway, her gaze flicking from me to Alistair, then to the whisky bottle and the scattered documents.
“Mom!” I squeak, my voice jumping three octaves. “This is not what it looks like!”
Which is technically true. Whatever she thinks she’s walked in on, the reality—a McKenzie and a McGregor studying old journals while drinking a hybrid whisky born of a secret family collaboration—is probably far stranger.
“Good evening, Mrs. McGregor,” Alistair says smoothly.
I notice he somehow manages to look composed despite everything.
“I assure you, I’m here with the best of intentions,” he adds.
My mother crosses her arms, her expression unreadable. “I’d love to hear that.”
My brain—usually reliable in a crisis—completely abandons me. Instead of offering a rational explanation about shared historical interest, or even a halfway believable lie tied to my design work, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“We were just looking for somewhere… private,” I stammer, my cheeks blazing.
Alistair’s head snaps toward me.
“A private place?” my mother repeats, one brow raised.
“Yes! For… you know…” My voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “To be together. As a couple. Fiancés. Who are very much in love. With each other. A lot.”
Oh my God. Why did I say that? Of all the possible explanations, why did I pick the one that implies we’re using the sacred McGregor archives as… what, exactly? A romantic hideaway?
Alistair, after a moment of complete shock, apparently decides to play along.
“This is entirely my fault, Mrs. McGregor,” he says, his sincerity almost convincing enough to make me believe my own lie. “I suggested we find somewhere quiet to… discuss our future.”
“In the archives?” my mother asks, unconvinced.
“That was my idea,” I jump in. “I wanted somewhere no one would disturb us. So we could… explore… our feelings.”
Alistair coughs lightly, and I realize—with horror—the double meaning of what I just said.
“What Keira means,” he quickly amends, “is that since our relationship is still new and, well, unexpected, we wanted a space to speak openly. Away from prying ears.”
“Exactly!” I agree far too enthusiastically. “Talking! That’s all we were doing. While drinking this whisky. To set the mood. For discussion.”
“A deep discussion,” Alistair adds.
“Very deep. About our feelings. Which are completely real.”
He shoots me a look that clearly says stop talking, but it’s too late. The avalanche has begun, and I can’t stop it.
“We’re just so into each other that it’s hard to find private moments, you know?
With our families constantly watching. And the pressure.
And Callum probably wanting to murder Alistair in his sleep.
So we look for secluded places. To be together.
Not to search the archives for information about a possible past relationship between our families—that would be ridiculous! ”
I finally stop, out of breath.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Alistair clears his throat. “What we mean is… our passion is sometimes… overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming,” I echo like an idiot.
“And in those moments, we need to explore—”
“The archives!” I blurt, then immediately wince. “I mean—no. Not the archives. Our feelings. We explore our feelings. In the archives. But not because of the archives. Despite the archives.”