“Very kind of you,” I say carefully.
“A recipe reserved for honored guests,” Malcolm adds. “Few have had the privilege.”
“And fewer have lived to tell the tale,” Catriona mutters.
Alistair nudges me.
I lift the cup, barely touch it to my lips. “Delicious.”
“You should drink it while it’s hot,” Mary insists. “The beneficial properties fade quickly.”
For the next several minutes, I deploy every distraction tactic imaginable—questions, fake sips, even a subtle attempt to swap cups with Alistair.
“Is something wrong with your tea?” Malcolm asks finally.
“Not at all,” I say quickly. “We McGregors just… savor slowly. It’s tradition.”
“Is that so?” Fiona raises a brow. “I’ve seen McGregors drink whisky like water at summer festivals.”
Cornered.
I take a real sip.
And freeze.
It’s not bitter.
It’s… incredible. Warm berries, soft spice, rich and comforting.
“It’s delicious,” I admit, genuinely stunned.
Mary smiles. “Highland berry tea with winter spices. The recipe actually comes from a McGregor. Six generations ago.”
Alistair is watching me, clearly entertained.
I shoot him a glare that promises revenge.
“So, Keira,” Malcolm says without preamble, “what are your intentions regarding my son—and, by extension, the McKenzie distillery?”
“Father,” Alistair warns.
“Marriage is the most dangerous business venture there is,” Malcolm replies. “I’m assessing risk.”
I take another sip, buying time.
“My intentions are simple. Mutual respect. Honesty. And treating our differences as strengths rather than weaknesses.”
“Very diplomatic,” Mary notes.
“It’s what I believe,” I say.
“And the distillery?” Malcolm presses. “You’ve publicly opposed our modernization.”
“I’ve questioned approaches that sacrifice authenticity for spectacle,” I answer steadily. “But I also recognize that without adaptation, traditions die. It’s about balance.”
“Words,” Ian scoffs. “McGregors are good at talking. Less so at listening.”
“And McKenzies are excellent at judging without understanding,” I snap—before I can stop myself.
