My grandmother’s strangled cry echoes across the valley—probably all the way to Edinburgh. I’ve just triggered either the biggest disaster of my life… or my most brilliant escape.
Now all I have to do is convince Alistair McKenzie to play along.
Which, all things considered, is about as likely as Hamish becoming the first sheep in space.
CHAPITRE 2
KEIRA
How to start a full-blown family crisis in one sentence
It takes me a few seconds to realize I actually said those words out loud.
“Alistair McKenzie? The McGregors’ worst nightmare?”
My grandmother’s voice shoots up into a pitch I didn’t even know she could reach. My mother’s eyes go wide with shock.
“Alistair McKenzie? You cannot be serious.”
My smile slowly spreads. This is completely insane. And yet… the more I think about it, the more perfect this plan becomes.
Who else could guarantee that Maggie would immediately abandon her matchmaking schemes? She’ll be so busy trying to understand how a McGregor could possibly be engaged to a McKenzie that she’ll leave me alone for weeks. Months, maybe.
“I don’t like this at all,” my grandmother declares.
“Keira Isla McGregor,” my mother says sharply—sharper than I’ve ever heard her—“have you completely lost your mind?Alistair McKenzie? The man you’ve publicly argued with at the last three heritage council meetings—and at Callum’s wedding?”
“Four,” I correct automatically. “The last one was especially heated because he suggested installing a whisky bar in the bell tower of the old church.”
“You are not helping your case!” my mother exclaims. “This is madness.”
She stares at me like I’ve just announced plans to raise dragons in the garden.
“You hate his approach to modernization!”
“I dislike certain aspects,” I hedge. “But it’s a prestigious project, and honestly, it would give me the opportunity to influence his vision—steer it in a direction that’s more respectful of tradition.”
Maggie turns to Robert, who looks just as stunned as she does.
“Come along, my dear. I think it’s time I saw you out.”
They walk away, and I turn my gaze back to the valley.
“You have that look,” my mother murmurs.
I glance at her. She shakes her head, incredulous.
“What look?” I mutter.
“The same one you had when you were eight and decided to ‘restore’ the portrait of old Laird McGregor with oil pastels.”
I just shrug.
“When were you planning to tell us?” she asks, arms crossed, eyes still wide with shock.
I flinch. I hadn’t planned on telling anyone at all, actually. This impulsive plan has already spiraled way beyond me.
“It’s recent,” I say vaguely, waving a hand. “Very recent.”
