“And survived,” she shoots back. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not as if I made a deal with the devil. Though…”
She eyes me with mischief.
“The rumors about a dark pact for that vanilla note—any truth to them?”
“I’m afraid it’s just eighteen years in American oak barrels,” I say. “Much less exciting than a demonic bargain.”
“Most secrets are disappointingly mundane,” she says wisely. “Like arranged marriages.”
The pointed look she sends Keira and me nearly makes me choke on my wine. There’s no way she knows… and yet, it feels like she’s reading straight through me.
Dinner continues in waves of tension and surprising normalcy. Jane proves an invaluable ally, skillfully redirecting conversation whenever Callum gears up for another interrogation. Meanwhile, Hamish and Rosita’s bizarre courtship adds a surreal backdrop to the evening.
At one point, Hamish attempts to present his rose. Unfortunately, enthusiasm gets the better of him—he trips on the rug, sending the flower flying straight into the gravy… which promptly lands on Callum’s kilt.
“By all the saints of the Highlands!” he roars, leaping to his feet.
“We should get the animals out,” I say quickly, rising as the sheep scatter.
“Callum, for heaven’s sake,” Jane sighs. “It’s just gravy. And Hamish is the culprit—not Alistair.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he trained that sheep for sabotage,” Callum mutters, though he takes the napkin she offers.
“If I were orchestrating sabotage,” I reply pleasantly, “I’d aim higher than your kilt. Perhaps a dramatic haggis explosion?”
Keira shoots me a warning look—but Callum lets out a reluctant snort.
“A McKenzie with a sense of humor,” he says, dabbing at his kilt. “Another first.”
“I’m afraid evolution is unstoppable,” I say lightly. “We adapt…”
His gaze locks onto mine.
“Or we die.”
CHAPITRE 8
ALISTAIR
How to Execute a Strategic Retreat
Dessert—cranachan so good it could bring a grown Scot to tears—is served in an atmosphere that’s noticeably lighter than before. Even Callum seems to have shifted from outright hostility to something closer to reluctant tolerance. Progress. Meanwhile, the sheep, thoroughly worn out from their dramatic courtship and stubbornly refusing all attempts to evict them, have settled side by side near the fireplace. Rosita leans into Hamish in a display of intimacy that feels almost indecent for livestock.
“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” I say at last, setting my spoon down. “Dinner was exceptional. And the company… surprisingly enjoyable.”
“You’re leaving already?” Maggie asks, sounding almost disappointed. “We haven’t even started on Keira’s most embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Grandmother!” Keira protests.
“Another time, perhaps,” I offer with a polite smile. “Though I’m particularly looking forward to hearing about the 2009 Junior Highland Games incident.”
Keira’s eyes go wide. “How do you know about that?”
“A McKenzie never reveals his sources,” I say lightly. “But the image of you in a kilt, holding a tree trunk twice your size, is… unforgettable.”
This time, Callum actually laughs—an honest, unrestrained sound.
“He’s got a point. That picture’s legendary.”
