“Since I was six.”
“We should play before you leave.”
Not a suggestion.
“Gladly.”
A phone rings. Moira stands, apologizing—journalists at the distillery.
Ian follows her out, muttering about Americans and whisky.
When they’re gone, Mary turns to me.
“I hear you have an interest in Victorian architecture.”
“I do,” I say, surprised.
“I have a few books you might enjoy,” she says, rising. “Alistair, keep your father occupied.”
One look silences him.
I follow her through quiet corridors, bracing for interrogation.
Instead, when the library door closes behind us, her expression softens.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “No interrogation. Not today.”
The room is stunning—floor-to-ceiling books, rolling ladder, worn leather chairs.
“I could live here,” I breathe.
“It’s my refuge,” she says. “Forty years married to a stubborn McKenzie will do that.”
Then she studies me—sharp, but not unkind.
“Whatever arrangement you have with my son… I hope you understand what you’re stepping into. The McKenzies do nothing halfway. Including falling in love.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“Mary—”
“Don’t deny it,” she says gently. “I’m not here to trap you. Just to warn you—pretending has a way of becoming real.”
My chest tightens.
“He may seem confident,” she adds softly, “but Alistair’s heart can break like anyone else’s.”
The thought hits harder than it should.
She hands me an old, beautifully bound book.
“Gothic Revival in the Scottish Highlands. First edition.”
I stare at it, stunned. “How did you?—”
“I did my research,” she says with a small smile. “Unlike Malcolm, I don’t assume every McGregor ambition is a threat. Your cultural center could benefit everyone.”
Her hand rests lightly on my arm.
