“I’ve already told you I’m not your employee, McKenzie,” I reply, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. “I’m your heritage design consultant. And your fake fiancée.”
His smile widens.
“So that makes you my temporary partner on multiple fronts?”
“That sounds like the title of a terrible romance movie.”
“Whisky, Love, and Lies in the Highlands, starring Keira McGregor as the stubborn preservationist and Alistair McKenzie as the visionary.”
“You forgot arrogant.”
“I assumed that was implied,” he replies, holding the door open for me.
Despite myself, I can’t suppress a smile. For someone who embodies my sworn enemy, Alistair has a disturbingly compatible sense of humor.
The receptionist greets us with a polite smile and a curious look that says a great deal. I can’t help wondering what Alistair has told his staff about our arrangement—or our sudden professional collaboration.
His personal assistant joins us.
“Miss McGregor, welcome back to the McKenzie distillery. I’ve prepared a temporary access badge that will allow you to move freely through the administrative and commercial areas.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Martha is the backbone of this company,” Alistair comments. “Without her, we would probably have collapsed decades ago.”
“You exaggerate, sir, but that’s kind of you to say,” she replies with a knowing smile.
“Shall I show you around?” he asks.
“Let’s start with the shop,” I suggest. “Since that’s the focus of my assignment.”
“Of course. This way.”
We walk through several corridors, Alistair introducing me here and there to members of the staff we pass. Most seem surprised, some clearly curious, but all are polite and welcoming. No pitchforks or torches in sight. So the witch hunt is not on the agenda. At least not yet.
The shop is exactly as I imagined it: too commercial, too sterile, completely lacking in soul. The metal shelving, the cold lighting, the generic displays—this could be anywhere. An airport. A duty-free shop. Anywhere at all.
“Well?” Alistair asks, watching my reaction. “What do you think?”
“It’s functional,” I reply diplomatically.
“And that is the most boring adjective in the English language,” he shoots back. “That’s exactly why I need you. This space tells nothing of who we are.”
“The problem is that everything is too generic,” I explain, already taking notes. “Nothing here speaks specifically of the McKenzies or the Highlands. You could sell perfume or clothing here and it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Exactly!” he says, clearly pleased. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to marketing for months.”
I start measuring the space with my laser measure, already picturing how it could be transformed.
“You want something modern, but authentic. A place that tells the story of the distillery while offering a contemporary experience.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he replies. “Visitors want to feel connected to the history of whisky, not just buy a bottle in an impersonal setting.”
“Show me the rest of the distillery. I need to understand the whole before I design anything.”
The next two hours pass in a blur as Alistair guides me through the different areas of the distillery—from the aging warehouses to the tasting rooms, including the small museum housing historical artifacts and documents.
It is there, in front of a display case containing old bottles and labels, that he lingers.
