“So… a McGregor and a McKenzie… together?”
“Looks like it. And if these documents are accurate, they created something together. That ‘treasure’ the journals mention might be connected to them.”
“Or it could be this whisky. A secret recipe they developed?”
“Maybe—but why all the secrecy around a simple recipe? And why the mention of dividing artifacts between the families after their dispute?”
I’m about to answer when the archive door swings open.
Alistair and I freeze like deer in headlights.
My mother stands in the doorway, her gaze flicking from me to Alistair, then to the whisky bottle and the scattered documents.
“Mom!” I squeak, my voice jumping three octaves. “This is not what it looks like!”
Which is technically true. Whatever shethinksshe’s walked in on, the reality—a McKenzie and a McGregor studying old journals while drinking a hybrid whisky born of a secret family collaboration—is probably far stranger.
“Good evening, Mrs. McGregor,” Alistair says smoothly.
I notice he somehow manages to look composed despite everything.
“I assure you, I’m here with the best of intentions,” he adds.
My mother crosses her arms, her expression unreadable. “I’d love to hear that.”
My brain—usually reliable in a crisis—completely abandons me. Instead of offering a rational explanation about sharedhistorical interest, or even a halfway believable lie tied to my design work, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“We were just looking for somewhere… private,” I stammer, my cheeks blazing.
Alistair’s head snaps toward me.
“A private place?” my mother repeats, one brow raised.
“Yes! For… you know…” My voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “To be together. As a couple. Fiancés. Who are very much in love. With each other. A lot.”
Oh my God. Why did I say that? Of all the possible explanations, why did I pick the one that implies we’re using the sacred McGregor archives as… what, exactly? A romantic hideaway?
Alistair, after a moment of complete shock, apparently decides to play along.
“This is entirely my fault, Mrs. McGregor,” he says, his sincerity almost convincing enough to make me believe my own lie. “I suggested we find somewhere quiet to… discuss our future.”
“In the archives?” my mother asks, unconvinced.
“That was my idea,” I jump in. “I wanted somewhere no one would disturb us. So we could… explore… our feelings.”
Alistair coughs lightly, and I realize—with horror—the double meaning of what I just said.
“What Keira means,” he quickly amends, “is that since our relationship is still new and, well, unexpected, we wanted a space to speak openly. Away from prying ears.”
“Exactly!” I agree far too enthusiastically. “Talking! That’s all we were doing. While drinking this whisky. To set the mood. For discussion.”
“A deep discussion,” Alistair adds.
“Very deep. About our feelings. Which are completely real.”
He shoots me a look that clearly saysstop talking, but it’s too late. The avalanche has begun, and I can’t stop it.
“We’re just so into each other that it’s hard to find private moments, you know? With our families constantly watching. And the pressure. And Callum probably wanting to murder Alistair in his sleep. So we look for secluded places. To be together. Not to search the archives for information about a possible past relationship between our families—that would be ridiculous!”
