Chapter 17
ALISTAIR
The weekend in the Highlands
If I had to pinpoint the exact moment I lost all common sense, it would probably be when I saw the weather alerts warning of an incoming storm in the Highlands… and still decided to get on the road anyway.
And yet, here we are—my so-called fiancée and I—inside my luxury Range Rover, battling winds strong enough to bend a centuries-old oak and rain so relentless I can barely see past the hood.
“Do you want me to say ‘I told you so’ in Gaelic or English?” Keira asks, gripping the handle above the door as I navigate a particularly treacherous curve.
“Neither will be necessary,” I reply, with a dignity I am far from feeling. “I maintain that leaving this morning, when the sky was still blue, was the logical decision.”
“Of course. And ignoring the three orange weather alerts on your phone was perfectly reasonable too,” she shoots back. “Right up there with dismissing your assistant’s suggestion to book an extra night in Edinburgh.”
I clear my throat, unwilling to admit she’s entirely right. My Scottish pride—the same pride that pushed us out of Edinburgh’s comfort and into this chaos—won’t let me concede my poor judgment.
“The forecast mentioned a ‘possibility’ of a storm, not a biblical flood.”
“Ah yes, that explains the animals lining up two by two along the road,” she says dryly, gesturing toward what turns out to be a pair of deer huddled under the trees.
I’m about to respond when the car suddenly skids on a patch of water, sending us lurching toward the ditch. Instinct—and a fair amount of luck—keeps us on the road, but my heart is pounding.
Keira, who practically ended up in my lap during the maneuver, straightens.
“Okay, McKenzie, I’m officially abandoning the idea of making it home tonight,” she says calmly. “Unless your plan is to turn us into an accident statistic?”
“Your concern is touching,” I reply.
But she’s right. Pushing on would be pure madness. Even for a McKenzie.
As if on cue, a sign appears through the curtain of rain: Monarch of the Glen Lodge – 2 miles.
“See?” Keira says, relief obvious in her voice. “The universe is sending us a sign.”
“The universe—or Scottish road signage,” I mutter, already slowing to take the turn.
The lodge reveals itself as an imposing stone building nestled in a pine forest—a remnant of the ancient woods that once covered this land. Under different circumstances, I might appreciate its rugged architecture and rustic charm. Right now, I’m just grateful it exists.
The parking lot is full, proof we’re not the only ones seeking refuge. We dash through the downpour and burst into the warm lobby, where a massive fireplace crackles.
The receptionist, an older woman with a kind smile, greets us with the sympathy of someone who’s seen drenched travelers all day.
“Good evening and welcome to the Monarch of the Glen Lodge. I assume you’re looking for shelter from this dreadful storm?”
“Indeed,” I confirm, running a hand through my soaked hair. “Would you happen to have two rooms available for the night?”
Her expression turns apologetic.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we’re nearly fully booked. Everyone caught in the storm has ended up here. We only have one suite left.”
Keira and I exchange a look that clearly says the same thing: Not again.
“What kind of suite?” she asks carefully.
The receptionist hesitates. “It’s our… honeymoon suite.”
Of course it is. Why would this day go any other way?
“We’ll take it,” Keira says before I can respond.
“Are you newlyweds?” the receptionist asks, glancing between us.
“Not yet. We’re engaged,” I clarify.
Her face lights up. “Oh, congratulations! You’ll love the suite. Let me show you.”
As we follow her down a corridor lined with dark wood and Highland landscapes, I lean closer to Keira.
“We’re establishing a dangerous pattern, McGregor,” I murmur. “Second night in a row sharing a room.”
“Don’t get carried away, McKenzie. This is the most practical option—unless you’d rather sleep in your very luxurious but undoubtedly uncomfortable car.”
The honeymoon suite is exactly what you’d expect…
and worse. A massive four-poster bed draped in red tartan and heart-shaped pillows dominates the room.
Rose petals trail from the doorway to the bed, and I’d wager there’s a bottle of champagne chilling somewhere nearby.
Through the partially open bathroom door, I catch sight of a bathtub large enough for two, surrounded by candles.
“Well, this is…” Keira starts.
“Subtle?” I offer, barely holding back a smile.
“I was going to say ‘Scottish charm meets Valentine’s Day.’”
The receptionist wishes us a pleasant stay with a knowing smile before leaving us alone with the awkwardness.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say immediately.
Keira rolls her eyes. “We’re not doing this again. That bed is bigger than my first apartment. We can share it without even noticing each other. Also—there is no couch.”
I glance around. She’s right. Just armchairs.
I drop our soaked bags near the fireplace to dry and move to the window. The storm has intensified, turning the landscape into a violent blur of bending trees and sweeping rain.
“Looks like we’re stuck here for a while,” I say. “How about dinner downstairs?”
The restaurant is a rustic space with heavy oak beams and a roaring fire, filled with travelers just like us. The atmosphere is unexpectedly warm—like the storm has forced strangers into a shared sense of camaraderie.
Seated near the fire, Keira and I enjoy remarkably good Scottish fare—a creamy cullen skink, followed by a modern take on haggis that even Keira, a culinary purist if there ever was one, approves of.
“So, how are you enjoying your stay?” a server asks as he refills our wine glasses.
“It was a bit unplanned,” Keira says with a smile, “but your lodge is charming.”
“You’re on your honeymoon, aren’t you?” he asks.
Before we can answer, an elderly woman at the next table leans over.
“Oh, newlyweds!” she exclaims delightedly. “My husband and I came here for our honeymoon forty-three years ago. Didn’t we, Rory?”
Her husband, a white-bearded man with bright eyes, nods.
“And look at us now—still together after all this time. That storm that brought you here might be a good omen, you know.”
“We’re not exactly—” Keira begins.
“We’re engaged, actually,” I finish, taking her hand across the table. “Wedding’s next year.”
I’m not sure why I keep up the act when we have nothing to prove to these strangers—but the warmth in their smiles makes it impossible to ruin the moment.
The conversation drifts to the storm and the forecast, but I notice Keira hasn’t pulled her hand away. And I have no desire to let go.
Back in our suite, someone has stoked the fire. The room glows in warm gold, softening even the more… enthusiastic elements of the decor.
“Drink?” I offer, pulling a flask from my bag.
“You always carry whisky?” Keira asks, slipping off her damp shoes.
“A McKenzie never travels without essentials,” I reply with mock seriousness. “Would you prefer questionable champagne—or a thirty-year-old single malt?”
“The real question is—McKenzie or McGregor?”
I can’t help but smile. “Glenmorangie. Neutral ground.”
We settle into armchairs by the fire, each holding a glass of amber liquid. Outside, the storm rages—but in here, it’s warmth and quiet.
“You were incredible yesterday,” I say after a moment.
She looks at me over her glass, surprised. “I just told the truth. Your project has merit—even if I still have reservations.”
“The historic jacuzzi?”
“Among other things,” she says, smiling.
I swirl the whisky in my glass, watching the firelight flicker through it.
“Sometimes I wonder if my vision for the distillery is the right one.”
Keira straightens, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
I exhale slowly, unsure why I suddenly feel compelled to open up.
“My father has a very clear idea of what the family business should be—carry on tradition, add just enough innovation to stay competitive. And then there’s me… pushing for modernization he thinks will dilute everything that makes our whisky what it is.”
“And you’re starting to think he might be right?” she guesses.
“Sometimes. Other times, I’m convinced that without real change, we’ll just become another dusty distillery surviving on name alone.”
I take a sip, letting the warmth settle.
“Feels ironic, doesn’t it? A McKenzie doubting himself.”
“Not at all,” Keira says softly. “I know what it’s like to carry family expectations. To try to carve your own path while honoring tradition.”
She leans forward slightly, her face lit by the fire, impossibly soft.
“For what it’s worth, I think your vision has merit. You’re not erasing the past—you’re making it accessible. That’s… kind of noble.”
Her words hit deeper than I expect.
“You know who else understands my vision? My mother. She’s always been the bridge between my father and me.”
“She sounds wise,” Keira says. “I’d like to get to know her better.”
“You remind me of her, actually.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Surprise flashes across her face.
“How so?”
“The way you challenge convention while still respecting history. Your passion. Your independence. Even the way you call me out when I get too arrogant.”
She laughs softly. “Your mother puts you in your place? I like her already.”
“You have no idea. When Campbell mentioned the similarities between you two earlier, I knew exactly what he meant.”
“Do you think he knows her well?”
“Possibly. He said he knew my grandparents. Maybe he knew her too.”
A comfortable silence settles, broken only by the fire and the storm. I find myself watching her—the way the light dances in her hair, the reflection of flames in her eyes. There’s a natural grace to her I’m not sure I ever truly noticed… or maybe never allowed myself to.
“Tell me something no one knows about the great Alistair McKenzie,” she says suddenly.
I laugh, slightly embarrassed. “Like what—my deepest, darkest secret?”
“Your biggest insecurity.”
I hesitate… then answer honestly.
“Sometimes I feel like an impostor. Like I’m playing the role of the perfect McKenzie heir without actually knowing what I’m doing.”
She doesn’t interrupt—just watches me, encouraging me to continue.
“My father has this natural authority. I compensate with arrogance—hoping no one notices that half the time, I’m terrified of making the wrong decision and ruining everything.”
“Impostor syndrome,” she murmurs. “I know it well. When I proposed my cultural center project, I was convinced everyone would see right through me.”
“You? You’re the most capable, confident person I know in your field.”
She smiles, a little self-deprecating. “That’s kind of you. But trust me—there’s a mountain of doubt under that confidence.”
Our eyes meet—and something shifts. Not the business arrangement. Not the fake engagement.
Something real.
“So,” she says, lifting her glass for a refill, “what about that half-McGregor, half-McKenzie flask Maggie has? Think it’s part of the treasure?”
I latch onto the safer subject. “Most likely. It looks a lot like the label on the whisky you had me taste.”
“The one made on the border between our lands?”
I nod.
A flash of lightning floods the room, followed by a thunderclap so loud it rattles the windows. The lights flicker… then go out, leaving only the firelight.
In the sudden darkness, Keira shifts closer to me. Our shoulders brush, and I fight the urge to wrap an arm around her.
“Looks like we’re officially cut off now,” I murmur.
“At least we have the fire,” she says.
The flames dance across her face, making her look almost unreal. A strand of hair falls across her cheek, and without thinking, I reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
She doesn’t pull away.
Her eyes lock with mine—something unreadable in them.
My heart starts racing as my gaze drops to her lips, and I wonder what would happen if I leaned in just a little closer—
Another thunderclap shatters the moment. We both jerk slightly. The lights flicker back on.
“We should probably get ready for bed,” Keira says, a faint blush on her cheeks.
“Yes. Right,” I agree, still shaken by what almost happened.
The bed looms between us again.
“Look—” I start.
She sighs. “We’re not doing this again. That bed is enormous. We can share it like civilized adults. Unless you’re worried you won’t be able to resist my irresistible charm?”
Her tone is teasing—but there’s something underneath it.
“I think I’ll manage,” I reply lightly. “Though your tendency to hog the blankets might test me.”
“How do you know I hog blankets?”
“Deductive reasoning.”
Our bedtime routine becomes another awkward dance—taking turns in the bathroom, avoiding each other just enough.
Then the lights go out.
We lie side by side in the oversized bed, a respectful distance between us. Despite the long day, sleep doesn’t come easily.
“Alistair?” she whispers.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For opening up tonight. I know that wasn’t easy.”
Her voice is soft—vulnerable—and something shifts inside me.
“Strangely… it was,” I admit.
Silence stretches between us.
“I never thought I’d trust a McGregor,” I murmur.
“And I never thought a McKenzie would understand me,” she replies.
Her words linger in the dark, heavier than I’m ready to unpack.
“If I believed in fate, I’d say it’s trying to bring us together,” she adds quietly.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well… we keep literally falling into each other,” she says.
I laugh softly, thinking of all our mishaps.
“And then there’s the past few days—first forced to share a room, now a bed.”
“You think fate is trying to bring us together?”
A brief pause.
“I think we control our own paths,” she says finally.
“I think so too. Goodnight, Keira.”
“Goodnight, Alistair.”
As sleep finally starts to take me, I turn slightly, watching her silhouette in the dim glow of the fire. Her face is relaxed, peaceful—and I feel a strange urge to protect that moment.
It hits me then, with unsettling clarity—
This arrangement is starting to feel like a lot more than a business deal.
Lying here, listening to her steady breathing and the storm raging outside, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason for all of this.
Cullen skink: a rich Scottish soup made with smoked haddock, potatoes, onions, and cream.