Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I curse my fair skin for betraying every emotion.
That’s when the oldest investor—Rory MacKinnon, who’s barely spoken until now—clears his throat.
“Fascinating, really. You know, I knew your grandparents, Mr. McKenzie.”
Alistair straightens. “You did?”
“Oh yes. Interesting times,” MacKinnon says, sipping his whisky. “There were all sorts of rumors back then—about a treasure shared between the McKenzies and the McGregors. Old stories people told after a few drinks.”
Alistair and I exchange a glance. Coincidence… or does he know something?
“What kind of treasure?” I ask, trying to sound casually curious.
MacKinnon shrugs. “Who knows? A whisky recipe, land, a business agreement… The Highlands are full of legends like that. But I do find it poetic that you two found each other. Some alliances are written in the stars—no matter how many generations it takes.”
A quiet falls over the table, like everyone’s absorbing the weight of his words. I can feel Alistair looking at me, but I don’t dare turn.
Something about what MacKinnon said lingers… like it means more than I’m ready to face.
“I can’t believewe pulled that off.”
I let out a long breath as the last investor disappears into a taxi. It’s nearly ten p.m., and we’re standing outside the restaurant, a little lightheaded from success—and maybe the wine.
“You were incredible,” Alistair says, his sincerity catching me off guard. “The way you defended the project…”
“I didn’t have to force it. Your project has real merit—as long as you drop the historic jacuzzi idea.”
He laughs, that genuine, unguarded laugh that completely transforms his face. I find myself wanting to hear it more often than I should.
“It’s too late to head back to the Highlands,” he says, checking his watch. “Martha booked us a room at the Caledonian.”
“That was thoughtful of her,” I reply, relieved not to face hours of driving tonight.
The ride to the hotel is quiet, but comfortable. The kind of silence that settles after a long, emotionally charged day.
The Caledonian is one of those historic hotels that breathes understated luxury. While Alistair handles check-in, I take in the grand lobby—ornate woodwork, glittering chandeliers. The part of me that geeks out over historic buildings is in heaven.
The conversation at the desk takes longer than expected. I see Alistair frown, then turn toward me with a mix of embarrassment and resignation.
“There’s… a small problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Martha only booked one room.”
I blink. “Oh. Right. Because we’re…”
“Engaged. Yes.”
“No problem,” I say quickly, aiming for casual. “I can just get another room.”
He winces. “That’s where it gets complicated. The hotel’s fully booked. There’s a medical conference in town.”
The receptionist confirms with an apologetic nod.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Just… perfect.”
In the elevator, we stand on opposite sides like getting any closer might cause spontaneous combustion.
