“You’d be surprised,” Jane adds with a mischievous smile. “I remember a certain cellar visit where you?—”
“Jane!” Callum snaps, flushing. “That’s not—we’re talking about Keira and… McKenzie.”
“Alistair,” I correct gently. “Since we’ll be brothers-in-law, we might as well use first names.”
The phrase hits him like a lightning strike. He chokes, coughing violently while Jane thumps his back, shooting me a look halfway between reprimand and amusement.
“My apologies,” I say, feigning contrition. “Perhaps a bit premature.”
“A bit,” Isobel agrees, though her gaze on me has shifted—more curious now. “But I admire your optimism.”
At that moment, the sheep reclaim center stage. Determined to impress, Hamish launches into what can only be described as an awkward courtship dance, spinning while clamping the rose between his teeth. Rosita watches, clearly entertained, letting out soft, encouraging bleats.
“I suppose our families aren’t the only ones forming unexpected alliances tonight,” I remark.
“The world’s gone mad,” Callum mutters. “McKenzies at our table, sheep flirting in our dining room… what’s next? Englishmen serving haggis?”
“Don’t blaspheme at the table,” Maggie scolds, though her eyes sparkle. “The young McKenzie is at least entertaining.”
“High praise,” I say with a respectful nod. “Coming from the renowned Maggie McGregor, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
“Oh?” she says, visibly pleased. “You know my reputation?”
“Who doesn’t in the Highlands? Your 1989 council speech on preserving traditional distilling methods is legendary. My grandfather spoke of it for decades—with equal parts admiration and fear.”
She laughs—a bright, youthful sound that catches me off guard.
“Ah yes, that speech. I threatened to turn modern stills into chamber pots.”
“An image that shaped an entire generation of distillers,” I say. “Including my father.”
Her expression lights up.
“Really? I thought the McKenzies had gone fully industrial.”
“Not entirely,” I reply, sensing an opening. “Our award-winning whisky—Soul of the Highlands—is still made using traditional methods.”
“I’ve never tasted it,” she admits. “I swore forty years ago never to let a drop of McKenzie pass my lips.”
“A noble vow,” I say, slipping a silver flask from my inner pocket, “but perhaps tonight warrants… a special exception?”
Callum’s glare could melt steel, but Maggie reaches for it without hesitation.
“Hand it over, young man. If my granddaughter intends to marry a McKenzie, I should at least know if your whisky is worthy of her.”
She pours, studies the amber liquid like a seasoned expert, inhales, then takes a measured sip.
Silence falls. Even the sheep pause.
“Hm,” she says at last.
“Well?” I ask, surprising myself with how much I care.
“Let’s call it… unexpectedly interesting,” she replies, a hint of a smile forming. “For a McKenzie whisky, it’s remarkably respectable.”
From Maggie McGregor, that might as well be a standing ovation.
“Grandmother!” Callum protests. “You just drank McKenzie whisky!”
