“I’ll walk you out,” Keira cuts in quickly, rising from her seat with clear urgency. “Rosita needs to go home anyway. And it’s late.”
“Of course,” I say, standing as well. “McGregor. Lachlan. Ladies—it’s been a genuine pleasure. Believe it or not.”
“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Callum replies, though there’s less bite in it now. “But if you make my sister happy, I suppose I can tolerate your occasional presence.”
“That’s more than I was hoping for,” I admit. “Good evening, everyone.”
We step outside, Keira guiding an unusually obedient Rosita, while Hamish trails after us until Jane intercepts him at the door, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like, “Be reasonable.”
The cool Scottish night air is a relief after the charged intensity of dinner. We walk in silence toward my car parked in front of the house, Rosita trotting ahead like she knows exactly where she’s going—which she absolutely does not.
“You could’ve warned me,” Keira says once we’re far enough from the house.
“And miss the look on your face? Not a chance.”
“You do realize my brother probably imagined at least ten different ways to kill you during dinner.”
“Only ten? I’m disappointed. I was aiming for twenty, minimum.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Why did you come?” she asks, stopping beside my car.
I shrug. “To make our story believable. A fiancé who never shows up would raise suspicion, don’t you think?”
Rosita chooses that moment to inspect my car like she’s checking whether it meets her standards. Which, for the record, it absolutely should not—seeing as I do not, in fact, run a personal chauffeur service for sheep.
“And,” I add, absently stroking her head, “I had to bring Hamish back. I didn’t expect to find Rosita at your place. She’s never left the McKenzie land before.”
“Strange coincidence,” Keira murmurs, leaning against my car. “Showing up the same day Hamish visits your distillery.”
“Love finds a way,” I say with a grin. “Even through electric fences, apparently. Much like certain heirs navigating century-old family feuds.”
She rolls her eyes, but her expression softens.
“Thank you,” she says after a moment. “For playing along. And for being… polite to my family.”
“Polite?” I echo, offended. “I was positively charming.”
“With my grandmother, yes,” she admits with a quiet laugh. “I never thought I’d see her willingly drink McKenzie whisky.”
We stand there, facing each other in the soft glow of moonlight, and for the first time, I notice how her eyes catch the light—like a fine whisky held up to a flame. Warm. Golden. Dangerous.
Behind her, the faint movement of curtains confirms what I already suspected.
“Your family is watching us,” I murmur, leaning in slightly.
“What?” she whispers, going rigid.
“Don’t look. But I’m fairly certain your grandmother and Jane are stationed at the window.”
Keira mutters something decidedly unladylike under her breath.
“Then we should give them what they want,” I add quietly. “Strengthen our cover.”
Before she can argue, I lean in and press a soft kiss to her cheek—lingering just long enough to satisfy our invisible audience, but not long enough to cross the carefully drawn lines of our arrangement.
For good measure, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
