— I haven’t reached the final recipe yet, he continues. I want to create a whisky that’s neither McKenzie nor McGregor—but something new. Something born from both our legacies.
I look at him, genuinely moved. This isn’t just a romantic gesture. It’s recognition—of everything we’ve uncovered together, of the shared history we’re only beginning to understand.
— You keep surprising me, I whisper.
— In a good way, I hope?
Instead of answering, I set my glass down, step closer—and kiss him.
This time, I don’t hesitate. His lips taste like the whisky he created—warm, complex, with that mysterious note that feels like it belongs only to us. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I let myself sink into the undeniable rightness of it.
This kiss is different from the first, in the barn. That one was impulsive, unexpected. This one is a choice. A quiet admission of everything growing between us.
When we finally pull apart, his gaze is soft, intense.
— If I’d known my whisky would have this effect, I would’ve started experimenting much sooner, he murmurs.
I laugh, lightheaded—and not just from the alcohol.
— It’s not the whisky. It’s the distiller, I reply, surprising even myself.
He smiles, then glances at his watch.
— We should go.
Right. Dinner with his parents.
Reality crashes back in all at once. Tonight, we face Malcolm McKenzie—the cold, calculating man who, from everything I’ve gathered, approves of neither our relationship nor my project.
— Do you think it’ll go well? I ask, suddenly uneasy.
— Honestly? I don’t know. My father is… complicated. But my mother will love you—I’m sure of it. And in the end, what they think doesn’t matter. This is our life, not theirs.
Our life.
The words echo inside me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. When did we start thinking like that? When did this arrangement stop being an act and start feeling dangerously close to something real?
— Then let’s go, I say, taking his hand. Let’s go face the dragon in his lair.
The McKenzie estate is imposing.Elegant. Slightly intimidating. Much like its current owner, Malcolm McKenzie—who watches me from the end of the table like an entomologist studying a particularly puzzling specimen.
To my right, Mary is the complete opposite of her husband: warm, smiling, asking about my family and my work with genuine interest. She has the same eyes as Alistair—bright, sharp, expressive.
— So, Keira, Malcolm says, Alistair tells me you’re something of an expert in local history?
His tone suggests he finds that profession barely more respectable than fortune-telling.
— I’m a historian specializing in Scottish heritage, Mr. McKenzie, I reply politely. With a particular focus on Highland cultural legacy.
He already knows that.
— Fascinating, he says in a tone that means the exact opposite. And how does a historian end up designing boutiques?
I feel Alistair tense beside me.
— Father, he starts, but I place my hand over his.
— It’s a fair question, I answer, turning to Malcolm. I’ve always believed history isn’t just something to study—it’s something to experience. My design work is an extension of that philosophy. I want to create spaces that tell a story while serving a practical purpose.
