“What the—how did you—HAMISH!”
The sheep stares at me with complete indifference, like this is perfectly normal. Like he fully intended to accompany me to the most important meeting of my life.
“No. No, no, no. This is not happening.”
I glance at the clock. 9:57 a.m. In three minutes, I’m supposed to walk into Alistair McKenzie’s office and propose the most absurd arrangement of my life—and now I have a stowaway sheep.
My brain scrambles through options. I don’t have time to go back to the castle. No time to call Callum. And how exactly would I explain being here to my brother anyway?
I’m so stressed I didn’t notice a sheep in my own car.
I let out a slow breath and turn back to him, fixing him with my most serious look.
“Listen to me, you demonic ball of wool,” I growl, pointing a finger at him. “You stay here. You do not move. You do not make a sound. Or I swear on everything sacred in the Highlands, I will turn you into a rug for the front hall. Understood?”
Hamish looks at me with what I swear is a smug little smile. As if to say, we both know you won’t do a thing, human.
I sigh, push open the door, and step out.
The McKenzie distillery rises in front of me—sleek, modern, all glass and steel reflecting the rolling hills. Unlike the McGregor castle with its ancient stone and stubborn tradition, this place feels… contemporary. Elegant, even. I hate that I kind of like it.
I check my reflection in the car window, adjust my jacket, and try to arrange my face into something professional. Behind the glass, Hamish stares back at me, looking far too pleased with himself.
“I mean it. Stay.”
I back away slowly, keeping my eyes on him until the last second—then turn toward the entrance… and immediately trip over the single step leading to the glass door.
My handbag goes flying, smacking loudly against the glass in front of me. I somehow manage to stay upright and scramble to gather my things.
The receptionist inside offers me a polite smile. There is absolutely no chance she didn’t see that.
I sneak a glance over my shoulder—no sign of Hamish. Good.
Straightening, I step inside.
“Hello. I’m Keira McGregor. I have a meeting with Alistair McKenzie.”
Her smile flickers—just slightly—at my name. Of course. A McGregor here is about as welcome as a vegetarian in a butcher shop.
“Of course, Miss McGregor. Mr. McKenzie is expecting you. Please follow me.”
She leads me down a corridor lined with black-and-white photographs of the distillery through the years. I notice, with mild irritation, that several McGregors appear in those images—always positioned just slightly behind the impeccably dressed McKenzies. Typical. Even their history is curated.
She knocks on a door at the end.
“Miss McGregor is here, sir.”
“Send her in,” comes a voice I recognize instantly.
The office is exactly what I expected—spacious, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the hills… and, of course, a clear view of McGregor castle in the distance. Message received, McKenzie. Always watching.
Alistair rises from his chair.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in a suit that was definitely tailored for him. There’s something about him—something people would call magnetic if they’re being polite,intimidating if they’re being honest. His slightly tousled dark hair and carefully maintained stubble soften the formality just enough to make it worse.
“Keira McGregor,” he says, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “What a surprise to see you on my territory without a petition in hand.”
I return the smile, just as fake.
