We’re so deep in the argument that I don’t notice his attention shift—until he frowns slightly, looking past my shoulder.
“Is that… a sheep eating my roses?”
I roll my eyes.
“Nice try, McKenzie. Your roses can wait until we?—”
“No,” he says, pointing toward the window. “There is actually a sheep outside.”
I turn.
And my heart stops.
There, in the middle of the pristine distillery garden, is Hamish. Happily devouring what used to be a very expensive-looking rose bush.
“Of course there’s a sheep,” I groan. “That’s Hamish.”
Alistair stares at me.
“You came here… with your sheep?”
“It’s a long story. And he was not supposed to be there. He was in my car!”
“In your car,” he repeats dryly. “Well, that explains everything.”
I don’t have time to respond because Hamish chooses that exact moment to yank an entire rose off its stem and chew it triumphantly.
Alistair bolts for the door.
“That garden cost twenty thousand pounds!”
I race after him, cursing Hamish, the McKenzies, and my brilliant fake engagement plan, which somehow just became even worse.
We rush through the corridor under Martha’s stunned gaze and burst outside.
Hamish has already moved on—to what looks like a very delicate flowerbed.
“Hamish! Stop!” I shout, lunging toward him.
He sidesteps with surprising agility and trots off, leaving me to trip and land flat in the flowers.
Perfect. Just perfect.
From my position in the dirt, I see a pair of perfectly polished shoes stop beside my head.
I look up.
Alistair is staring down at me, something flickering in his expression.
Amusement?
Impossible. There is nothing remotely fun about Alistair McKenzie.
“Need a hand?” he asks, offering one.
I ignore it and push myself up, brushing dirt off my clothes with as much dignity as I can salvage.
“Where did he go?” I mutter.
