“Sweet dreams, fiancée,” I murmur. “Our plan is working perfectly.”
I step back, noting the faint flush coloring her cheeks.
“See you soon.”
I open the back door for Rosita, who hops in with surprising grace—like she’s been doing this her whole life. I circle around to the driver’s seat, giving Keira one last wave. She’s still standing there, unreadable, caught somewhere between irritation and something else entirely.
Behind her, on the porch, Hamish watches with keen interest. I have no doubt he’s already plotting his next disaster.
As I start the engine, I become aware that my heart is beating faster than usual.
Probably just the adrenaline of surviving a McGregor dinner.
Or maybe… the lingering echo of that brief, electric moment when my lips brushed Keira’s skin.
From the back seat, Rosita lets out a soft, satisfied bleat.
“Don’t start,” I warn her. “This is strictly professional.”
If a sheep could roll its eyes, I’m certain she just did.
CHAPITRE 9
KEIRA
How to Take Tea with the Enemy… and Live to Tell the Tale
I tug at the sleeve of my tweed jacket for what has to be the hundredth time. My reflection in the rearview mirror looks… terrified. Which is ridiculous. It’s just tea. Tea with Alistair’s parents.
My fake fiancé’s parents.
McKenzies.
Right. That explains everything.
The drive curves through perfectly manicured gardens—less wild than ours, more controlled, but undeniably beautiful in their symmetry. I pull up in front of a grand gray-stone Victorian house, all sharp lines and quiet authority. It doesn’t shout power. It simplyexpectsit to be recognized.
Alistair is already waiting on the front steps, and against my better judgment, I notice how his sweater fits across hisshoulders. For a man who embodies everything I’m supposed to stand against… he’s annoyingly well put together.
“You’re punctual,” he remarks as I step out of the car. “I value that quality in my employees.”
I shoot him a glare. “Hilarious. Truly. But I’m not your employee, McKenzie. I’m your fake fiancée—which is objectively worse.”
That infuriating dimple appears in his cheek when he smiles. “I told my parents we were coming for tea. Just the four of us.”
“Perfect,” I say, instantly relieved. “I was picturing a hostile McKenzie tribunal.”
His smile widens—and something in my stomach drops.
“I toldmy parentsthat,” he clarifies. “Unfortunately, my aunt Fiona overheard, called my uncle Ian, who informed my great-uncle Douglas, who alerted my cousin Moira, who told my sister Catriona, who just happens to be visiting…”
“You’re joking,” I say flatly.
“Welcome to the McKenzie family,” he replies with a shrug. “We may not be as loud as the McGregors, but we’re just as talented when it comes to meddling.”
For one very real second, I consider turning around and leaving.
But I’m a McGregor. We don’t run—even from an ambush.
