For a Scotsman, wearing another clan’s tartan—especially that of a rival—is practically sacrilege. I stare at the McGregor kilt the way one might look at a venomous snake.
“Don’t worry,” Lachlan says, handing me a single, particularly hideous sock decorated with outrageous patterns. “I added this. It’s for luck.”
“And to permanently ruin your sense of style,” Keira adds.
I take a deep breath. If I want to maintain our charade—and, I have to admit, impress Keira a little—I don’t really have a choice.
“Where can I change?” I ask with what I hope is dignified resignation.
The smile Keira gives me almost makes the humiliation of trading my McKenzie tartan for a McGregor one worth it.
I’m led into a guest bedroom, and Lachlan follows, claiming he’s there to make sure I don’t try to escape through the window. The moment the door shuts, he folds his arms and fixes me with a steady look.
“So, McKenzie—what exactly are your intentions toward my favorite cousin?”
“I thought interrogation wasn’t part of the official traditions,” I reply cautiously.
“Oh, it’s not. This is just me making sure you’re not a complete idiot,” he says, dropping onto the bed. “Keira deserves better than some arrogant fool—even if she does have a questionable weakness for men in kilts.”
As I awkwardly adjust the McGregor tartan, I decide to be at least partially honest.
“I care about her,” I say simply. “More than I expected.”
Lachlan watches me for a moment, then gives a small nod.
“You know, for a McKenzie, you’re not as insufferable as I thought. I was expecting more ‘me McKenzie, you inferior’ and less… whatever this is.”
“So you’re saying I’m a normal human being?”
“Let’s not get carried away, bootleg whisky head,” he shoots back with a grin.
I pause, thrown off by the nickname.
“That’s how Keira and I communicate since we were kids,” he explains. “Insults have to start with ‘head of’ and be as creative as possible.”
“And that’s… affectionate?”
He shrugs. “It’s our thing. If I insult you, it’s a good sign. If I’m polite—start writing your will.”
I consider that for a second, then attempt, “Alright… head of… moldy haggis?”
Lachlan bursts out laughing. “Not bad for a beginner! There might be hope for you yet, McKenzie.”
Back in the drawing room, dressed in McGregor tartan and the single so-called lucky sock, I feel… not quite as ridiculous as I expected.
Keira’s eyes widen slightly when she sees me, and I catch something that looks suspiciously like approval in her gaze.
“The McGregor tartan suits you,” she comments. “Almost better than your own.”
“That’s borderline treason.”
The “traditions” continue at a relentless pace. After the kilt comes a culinary trial, where I’m tasked with preparing haggis under Maggie’s watchful eye and Lachlan’s merciless commentary.
“You chop those onions like an arthritic seal head!” he exclaims. “My one-eyed grandmother did better—and she’s been dead for fifteen years!”
Keira quietly steps in to help, subtly taking over certain tasks. Our coordination is unexpectedly seamless, as if we’ve been working side by side for years. Our hands brush, our movements sync, and I catch Lachlan exchanging a knowing look with Maggie.
Next comes “the ancestors’ recital,” where I’m expected to memorize the McGregor family tree and recite it. Lachlan delights in slipping in fake names to trip me up.
