Chapter 19
ALISTAIR
Back to reality
Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d spend my mornings analyzing every glance, every gesture, every micro-expression of Keira McGregor like some obsessive private investigator.
And yet, here I am—sitting in my office at the distillery, trying to focus on financial reports while watching her through the glass partition.
She’s working on the boutique designs with a level of concentration that borders on relentless…
and more importantly, she’s very carefully avoiding looking in my direction.
Ever since we got back from the lodge, Keira has perfected the art of subtle avoidance.
She shows up exactly on time, works with flawless efficiency, greets me politely, and leaves as soon as she can.
As if nothing happened in that shepherd’s shelter.
As if we didn’t almost kiss. As if she hadn’t admitted her feelings went beyond our professional arrangement.
And me—like a complete idiot—I let her.
“Mr. Alistair?”
Martha’s voice startles me. My secretary stands in the doorway, a stack of documents in her hands and an expression that suggests this isn’t the first time she’s called my name.
“Yes, Martha?” I say, attempting to look like a man focused on business rather than obsessed with a certain auburn-haired designer.
“The label samples for the new line have arrived. Would you like to review them with Miss McGregor?”
I glance toward Keira, who looks like she’s turned into a statue.
“Of course. Could you ask her to join me?”
Martha nods and walks over to her. I watch them exchange a few words before Keira rises with the rigid posture of a royal guard and makes her way into my office.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks, stopping just inside the door.
“The label samples,” I say, gesturing to the stack Martha left behind. “I’d like your input.”
She steps closer—but keeps her distance. Like I’m radioactive. Or contagious. Or both.
We go through the proposals in silence. Well—she does. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, noting the way her brow furrows when she concentrates, how she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking.
“This one,” she says finally, pointing to a clean, elegant design with gold detailing. “It respects the distillery’s heritage while adding a contemporary edge.”
“I agree,” I reply. “But what do you think about integrating the family history? We could reference the historical collaboration between our families.”
She freezes.
Completely still. Like I’ve hit pause.
“I… that’s an interesting idea,” she says, in a tone that clearly means the opposite.
“Keira, we need to talk about what happened at the lodge.”
“Nothing happened at the lodge,” she answers too quickly.
“Nothing? Really?”
“We had an interesting conversation. That’s all.”
The words hit like cold water.
“An interesting conversation,” I repeat. “That’s how you describe what happened in that shelter?”
Color rises to her cheeks, confirming she remembers every second of it.
“We almost made a mistake,” she says quietly, avoiding my gaze. “Thankfully, we were… interrupted.”
“By a sheep.”
“By a sheep,” she confirms with impressive composure.
“And now you’re acting like none of it happened. Like you didn’t say your feelings went beyond our arrangement.”
“Alistair, please…”
She straightens—and I recognize that look. The McGregor war mask.
“I said a lot of things in a moment of temporary lapse. The rain, the isolation, the atmosphere… those things can affect anyone.”
“A temporary lapse,” I echo, irritation creeping in.
“Exactly. We have a professional arrangement, Alistair. It would be dangerous to blur personal feelings with contractual obligations.”
Her reasoning is flawless. Logical.
And it makes me want to throw something out the window.
“Of course,” I say lightly. “You’re absolutely right. Let’s keep things professional.”
“Good,” she replies—but her fingers tighten around her pen.
“In that case, let’s get back to the labels. And the family history.”
She nods, visibly relieved to return to safer ground.
“I continued digging through the archives. I found something interesting.”
Despite herself, her eyes light up. The historian in her can’t resist a mystery.
“What is it?”
I pull a folder from my drawer and spread the photocopied documents across the desk.
“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a letter dated 1808. “Correspondence between Archibald McKenzie and E. McGregor.”
Keira leans in to read—and I catch the faint scent of her perfume. The closeness knocks the breath out of me for a second.
“The current tensions between our families trouble me deeply. I remain convinced that our shared treasure deserves better than these petty disputes…” she reads aloud.
She stops and looks up at me.
“Shared treasure? What is he talking about?”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know. It’s not the first time it’s been mentioned. And look at the signature.”
She scans the bottom of the page.
“With all my affection, A. McKenzie. Your great-great-grandfather?”
“Most likely. And the recipient?”
“E. McGregor… Elspeth McGregor,” she breathes.
“Exactly. History has a way of repeating itself in our families.”
She shoots me a sharp look. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing at all. Just a historical observation.”
We continue reviewing the documents in silence. Despite her effort to keep things strictly professional, I can see it—she’s fascinated. Drawn in. At one point, her hand brushes mine.
She pulls away like she’s been burned.
“I… I should get back to work,” she says, gathering her things too quickly.
“Keira, wait.”
“Yes?”
“This whole thing—the treasure—I’d like us to keep working on it. Together. As… colleagues.”
She hesitates, caught between curiosity and self-preservation.
“Okay,” she says finally. “But it stays strictly professional.”
“Strictly professional,” I echo.
She nods and leaves, a little too fast.
The rest of the day drags by in this strange, strained normalcy. She works. I work. We exchange polite, distant words when necessary.
It’s Martha who finally breaks the illusion.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” she says that afternoon, stepping into my office, “but what is going on between you and Miss McGregor?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Alistair, I’ve worked for your family for years. I’ve seen you handle tense negotiations, financial crises… even your breakup with that—”
My expression stops her from finishing.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” she concludes.
“Like what?”
“You watch her constantly. She avoids looking at you. You both walk on eggshells. The tension in this office is so thick it could be cut with a knife.”
I sigh. Martha has always had a talent for hitting exactly where it hurts.
“It’s complicated.”
“The best things usually are.”
“You’re giving relationship advice now?”
“Only when my employer behaves like an awkward teenager,” she says with a smile. “May I offer a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Stop acting like you’ve committed a crime. You work well together. You’re a good team. And your feelings are obvious.”
“Obvious?”
She gives me a look usually reserved for exceptionally foolish statements.
“I don’t pretend to understand everything, but I trust you. You’ll figure it out.”
After she leaves, I sit there, staring at the documents spread across my desk—thinking about Archibald and Elspeth, about the mysterious treasure… and about history repeating itself in ways that feel a little too familiar.
My mother always said McKenzies had a talent for complicating their own lives.
Apparently, it’s hereditary.
My phone buzzes.
CALLUM McGREGOR
Jane and I are hosting a barbecue Saturday. You coming? With your fiancée, of course. Maggie insists you both help prep for the Highland Games.
The Highland Games.
I’d completely forgotten.
Every summer, the whole community gathers for traditional games—and this year, as a newly engaged couple, Keira and I are expected to participate.
Together.
As a team.
With physical contact required for half the events.
I run a hand through my hair.
If she can barely handle a conversation in my office, how is she going to react when I have to guide her through a caber toss?
I type my reply.
ALISTAIR
We’ll be there. Keira will be thrilled.
That might be the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
The next morning, Keira arrives in what I’ve come to recognize as her professional armor—sharp suit, hair pulled back, expression neutral. She greets me with a polite nod and heads straight to her desk.
I wait until she’s settled before approaching.
“Morning, Keira. Sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you,” she replies without looking up.
“Good. I’ve been invited to Callum and Jane’s on Saturday—for a barbecue before the Highland Games.”
That gets her attention.
“The Highland Games?” she repeats, her voice going flat.
“You know—caber toss, sack races, tug-of-war…”
“I know what the Highland Games are, Alistair. What I don’t understand is why we have to participate.”
“As an engaged couple, we’re supposed to represent the union of our families. It’s symbolic—and you know that.”
“Symbolic,” she echoes.
“Keira, it won’t be that bad. A few games, some tradition, Maggie will be happy.”
“She will,” she says, in a tone that suggests Maggie’s happiness is not her top priority.
“And,” I add with what I hope is a charming smile, “it gives us a chance to play the perfect couple in front of everyone. You’re good at that.”
She gives me a look that could melt steel.
“Fine,” she says at last.
The rest of the week passes in this strange new rhythm. Officially, we keep our distance—but our shared obsession with the treasure creates an undercurrent of connection that makes everything feel… charged.
We spend lunch breaks combing through old records, evenings exchanging theories over messages, and mornings carefully avoiding even the slightest accidental touch.
It’s exhausting.
And fascinating.
And incredibly frustrating.
Martha’s right.
I’m acting like a lovesick teenager.
Friday evening, just as I’m about to leave, Keira approaches me with a determined expression.
“Alistair? I’ve been thinking about tomorrow.”
“The barbecue?”
She nods.
“If we have to play the perfect couple, we might as well do it properly. I don’t want our families suspecting anything.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“A truce. Tomorrow, we forget the awkwardness—and go back to being the team we were before… before the lodge.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“It has to be. For the sake of our arrangement.”
Our arrangement.
The words sound emptier every time.
“Alright,” I say. “Truce.”
“Good.”
She holds out her hand.
When our palms meet, that same electricity snaps between us.
We both pull away too quickly.
“See you tomorrow,” she says, turning to leave.
“See you tomorrow, Keira.”
As I watch her go, I can’t help wondering—
Is this truce going to fix anything…
Or just make everything between us impossible to ignore?
Because tomorrow, we’ll have to touch, work together, pretend we’re in love—
When we can barely look at each other without the air catching fire between us.