“She’s mine,” I say. “Well—technically, she belongs to the McKenzie distillery.”
“Hold on,” Callum cuts in, momentarily thrown off his warpath. “You’re telling me that sheep is a McKenzie?”
“I didn’t run a DNA test, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply dryly. “But yes—she’s from our land.”
“Fantastic,” Keira mutters, tipping her head back. “Now even the livestock is getting involved.”
I don’t know if it’s the absurdity or the tension snapping, but a laugh escapes me. Callum looks at me like I’ve lost my mind—which, admittedly, might not be far from the truth. After all, I’ve willingly walked into the lion’s den pretending to be engaged to his sister.
“If I’d known the whole family would be here,” I add lightly, offering the bouquet to Keira with a small bow, “I’d have brought more flowers.”
She steps forward to take them, her fingers brushing mine—brief, accidental, electric.
“What a surprise,” she says through a tight smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”
Her tone clearly translates to:What the hell are you doing here, you idiot?
“I thought it was time I officially met your family,” I answer smoothly, despite the tension coiled in my chest. “Especially after babysitting Hamish all afternoon.”
“What was Hamish doing at the McKenzie place?” Callum demands, his confusion deepening.
“It’s a long story involving rose bushes and a heroic chase through my distillery,” I say, stepping closer and extending my hand. “Good evening, Callum.”
He stares at my hand like it’s coated in nettles before finally gripping it hard enough to crush whiskey stones.
“I’d say I’m glad to see you,” he mutters, “but my grandmother taught me not to lie at the dinner table.”
“Callum!” Jane scolds, elbowing him. “Where are your manners?”
“Probably in the same place as my sister’s sanity,” he shoots back, eyes still locked on me.
“Don’t worry, Jane,” I say with an easy smile. “I was warned the welcome would be… warm.”
“Well then,” she replies with forced brightness that somehow makes her even more likable, “why don’t we all sit down? Mrs. Finley’s roast is wonderful, and it would be a shame to let it go cold while we… get acquainted.”
“Excellent idea,” Keira says quickly, clinging to the suggestion like a lifeline.
Meanwhile, Rosita has taken it upon herself to circle the table, apparently inspecting each guest. She pauses in front of Hamish, who now lingers at the dining room entrance, looking—astonishingly—shy for a sheep usually so bold.
“Your sheep is remarkably well-behaved,” Jane observes as Rosita begins strutting in front of him like she’s on a runway.
“Can’t say the same for the humans in her family,” Callum mutters.
“Callum McGregor!” his mother snaps. “That is not how we welcome guests—even McKenzies.”
“Glad to see your opinion of my family has improved since the well incident of 1978.”
“You know about that?” Maggie asks, addressing me for the first time since I arrived.
“The legends of our feud are passed down through the generations,” I reply, taking the seat Jane indicates—strategically placed between Keira and Maggie, directly across from Callum. “I assume it’s the same on your side.”
Jamison, whom I recognize as the McGregors’ longtime butler, sets a plate before me, his expression about as readable as ancient Gaelic script.
“Thank you, Jamison,” I say politely. “It’s good to see you again.”
One eyebrow lifts almost imperceptibly. “Is it, sir?”
“The last time we met, I was six and trying to climb your back wall to retrieve my kite.”
