Then one of the investors—a stocky man with a skeptical expression I identify as Tavish Dunbar—cuts in.
“This all sounds great on paper, McKenzie, but isn’t it just a way to commercialize Scottish heritage? Turn it into a theme park for tourists?”
I feel Alistair tense beside me. It’s the exact argument I’ve used against him more than once. He hesitates, caught off guard by the direct hit echoing my own criticisms.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lean forward.
“If I may. Having worked in heritage preservation over the past few years, I initially shared your concerns, Mr. Dunbar.”
All eyes turn to me—Alistair’s included, surprised.
“But what convinced me about Alistair’s vision is precisely that it doesn’t sacrifice authenticity for modernity. It creates a dialogue between the two.”
The conviction in my voice surprises even me. It’s not entirely a lie—Iamstarting to see the strength in his approach.
“Take the retail space, for example. Instead of generic displays, we’re integrating elements that tell the distillery’s story—like reclaimed beams from old warehouses turned into shelving, or archival photographs brought to life with modern technology.”
Alistair is looking at me like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What Keira’s saying,” he picks up, “is that our goal isn’t to replace tradition—it’s to make it accessible to a new generation.”
“Exactly,” I confirm. “It’s not about choosing between preservation and innovation. It’s about letting them strengthen each other.”
Dunbar studies us, then slowly nods. “I see. That’s… an interesting perspective.”
The presentation continues, but something shifts. Alistair and I fall into a natural rhythm, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. When he talks modernization, I ground it in history. When I bring up tradition, he bridges it to the future.
By the end, the investors are convinced. I see it in their nods, in the way their questions turn from skeptical to engaged.
But what unsettles me most is how effortless it all felt. I didn’t have to fake my admiration for Alistair’s ideas. I didn’t have to pretend I understood his vision.
Because Idounderstand it.
And that terrifies me.
Dinnerwith the investors afterward is a balancing act. Keeping up the illusion of being a couple while staying professional. Not overdoing it—but just enough to be believable.
“So how did you two meet, exactly?” asks the impeccably styled woman—Blythe Stewart, I’ve learned.
Alistair shoots me a knowing glance before answering.
“Keira accused me of trying to turn a historic washhouse into a public jacuzzi.”
I burst out laughing, remembering that particularly heated argument.
“You called it a ‘historic thermal spa,’ which was even worse,” I shoot back.
“I still think it had potential,” he defends.
“It might have—if you hadn’t suggested bubble jets and multicolored LED lights!”
The investors follow our back-and-forth like it’s a tennis match, clearly entertained by our dynamic.
“And from there you got engaged?” Dunbar asks, amused. “That’s quite the turnaround.”
Alistair’s hand finds mine under the table.
“Sometimes the line between passionately hating someone and passionately loving them is thinner than you’d think,” he says, that crooked smile making an appearance again—the one that should honestly be illegal in public.
