An awkward silence settles over the table, broken only by the clink of cutlery. A moment later, Mrs. Finley, our cook, comes in to clear the plates. When her eyes meet mine, I see pure solidarity. She’s witnessed too many of Maggie’s orchestrated dinners not to understand.
“That was delicious, Mrs. Finley,” I say sincerely, grasping for anything to change the subject.
“Thank you, dear. Your grandmother’s favorite haggis recipe. With a bit more whisky than usual.”
She gives me a discreet wink. Now that’s a wink I can appreciate. I smile, realizing she probably upped the alcohol just to help me survive the evening. That woman deserves a raise.
“Speaking of whisky,” Robert jumps in, “are you familiar with the McKenzie distillery?”
I freeze.
The McKenzies. Our family’s longtime rivals. Owners of the neighboring distillery—and currently trying to buy the ancestral land I want for my cultural center project. The ultimate taboo topic in this house.
“The heir, Alistair, seems intent on modernizing the business,” Robert continues. “His methods are controversial, but apparently effective.”
“Alistair McKenzie,” my grandmother sniffs, like the name itself offends her, “has no understanding of the true spirit of the Highlands. Turning an ancestral distillery into a flashy tourist attraction—what a disgrace.”
Strangely, Maggie is outraged by McKenzie’s projects but completely charmed by Robert’s. Just more proof she’s playing matchmaker tonight.
I bite my lip to stay quiet. I’ve clashed with Alistair more than once at heritage council meetings, and—though I hate to admit it—some of his modernization ideas aren’t entirely terrible.
“That boy actually had the nerve to offer to buy our southern parcel—the one bordering their land,” Maggie continues, slamming her hand on the table with surprising force. “Over my dead body. That land has belonged to the McGregors since 1743!”
“And it will stay that way,” my mother says soothingly.
“But let’s talk about the future, not old feuds,” Robert cuts in, his enthusiasm painfully forced. “Keira, what would you say to a private tour of my future resort on Strath Finella? I could personally walk you through the plans… and who knows where it might lead?”
He smiles like he thinks it’s charming. It makes me wonder if he has fangs.
I’m desperately searching for a polite excuse when Maggie claps her hands.
“What a wonderful idea! Keira would love that, wouldn’t you, darling?”
My mother mouths be brave at me, her expression clearly saying that bravery alone won’t be enough to survive one-on-one time with Bob the Piranha.
I open my mouth, ready to deliver my usual “urgent project” lie, when the dining room door bursts open. Jamison, our butler, stands there looking unusually flustered.
“Apologies for the interruption, but it’s Hamish.”
That name alone draws a collective sigh. Hamish—the most stubborn sheep in the Highlands—is both the unofficial mascot and reigning menace of the McGregor estate.
“What has he done this time?” my mother asks.
“He’s in the vegetable garden,” Jamison explains. “He’s uprooted all the beets and appears determined to move on to the cabbages.”
My mother rises immediately. I seize the opportunity like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline.
“I’ll help! I know his favorite hiding spots.”
“No, no,” Maggie insists, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. “You and Robert stay and finish your conversation. We’ll handle that stubborn creature.”
I shoot my mother a desperate look, but she only shrugs helplessly. Within seconds, they all leave, abandoning me with Robert and his predatory smile.
“Finally alone,” he murmurs, leaning closer.
My survival instincts kick in instantly.
“I need the bathroom,” I blurt, jumping to my feet and nearly knocking over my chair. “Emergency. Too much… haggis.”
