Alistair McKenzie is… actually kind of attractive.
Apparently, when he’s not being insufferable, he’s dangerously close to charming.
“I have heard that story,” he says. “My father wore those shoes for three months afterward. Claimed they’d been improved by McGregor malt.”
We both laugh at the same time.
A McKenzie and a McGregor—laughing together.
It feels… unreal.
He straightens, brushing off his suit. “I think we’ve earned a drink. Even if it’s only ten-thirty.”
“I have zero objections to that.”
By the time we make it back inside, my hair is falling out of its neat bun and my blouse is halfway untucked. I try to fix it discreetly.
“Martha is going to have a heart attack,” Alistair mutters as an employee stares at us wide-eyed.
“Not until she sees the storage room,” I shoot back.
We step into his office. He shuts the door and heads straight for a dark wood cabinet, pulling out a bottle and two crystal glasses.
“I save this for special occasions,” he says, pouring generously. “And surviving a McGregor sheep definitely qualifies.”
He hands me a glass.
The amber liquid glows as I swirl it, bringing it to my nose.
“What is this?” I ask.
“A limited edition. Twenty-five-year single malt, aged in Oloroso sherry casks. Only five hundred bottles.”
I roll my eyes slightly.
“Spare me the sales pitch. I’m not one of your tourists.”
He smiles. “Taste first. Judge after.”
I take a sip.
And… damn.
Rich. Deep. Dried fruit, honey, spice, a whisper of peat smoke, and a finish that lingers like heat under the skin.
It’s—painfully—one of the best whiskies I’ve ever had.
“Well?” he asks, already knowing.
“It’s… not terrible.”
He laughs—warm, real—and something about it catches me off guard.
“I’ll take that as glowing praise.”
He settles into one of the leather chairs and gestures for me to do the same. I sit, turning the glass slowly in my hand.
Time to get to the point.
