“Keira McGregor,” I reply, matching his grip. “A pleasure.”
“Really?” he says, brow lifting. “I was under the impression McGregors are genetically predisposed to despise anything named McKenzie.”
“Father—” Alistair starts.
I raise a hand.
“Science has made remarkable progress, Mr. McKenzie. They’ve isolated the McKenzie-hatred gene and removed mine entirely.”
Silence crashes over the room.
Then laughter explodes from the corner.
A striking woman with blazing red hair jumps to her feet.
“Oh, I like her!” she declares, striding over. “Finally, someone with teeth in this family. I’m Fiona—the one who says what everyone else is thinking.”
She grabs my shoulders and kisses both my cheeks.
“They say if you can’t get rid of the McGregors, you might as well marry one!”
“No one says that,” grumbles a stocky man with a graying beard. “We’ve said the opposite for generations.”
“And look where that’s gotten us, Ian,” she shoots back. “Still arguing over the same patch of land like it’s the Middle Ages.”
“The south parcel is not just land,” Malcolm says calmly. “It’s the key to the distillery’s future.”
I feel Alistair tense beside me.
Taboo topic. Two minutes in. Impressive.
“Perhaps we should have tea first,” a polished woman in her thirties suggests. “I’m Moira, by the way.”
Her handshake is warm, her smile genuine.
“I handle marketing and tourism. I’d love your input on our renovation plans, given your background in heritage preservation.”
“If by renovation you mean systematic destruction of two centuries of history,” mutters an elderly man by the fire.
“Great-uncle Douglas,” Alistair sighs. “Let’s not scare her off immediately.”
“On the contrary,” says a young woman who looks exactly like Alistair’s female counterpart. “If she’s joining this family, she should know what she’s walking into.”
She grins at me.
“I’m Catriona. I know all of Alistair’s embarrassing secrets. Including what happened at prom with Jessica Campbell.”
Alistair clears his throat loudly. “Is the tea ready, Mother?”
“Perfectly,” Mary replies serenely, as if chaos is her preferred atmosphere. “Everyone, sit.”
I end up on a sofa between Alistair and Moira while the others gather around. Mary pours tea with regal precision, using delicate porcelain that probably costs more than my car.
She hands me a cup with a knowing smile.
“For you, my dear. A special infusion. A family recipe.”
The liquid is darker than the others. Deeper. Almost… ominous.
