“It’s almost funny, when you think about it,” I say eventually. “Spending all day pretending to be in love, and now…”
“The irony isn’t lost on me,” he replies with a faint smile.
The room is beautiful. Spacious. Elegant.
With one bed.
One very large king-size bed that looks like it was designed to test the limits of our so-called relationship.
“I’ll take the couch,” Alistair says immediately.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That thing is way too small for you. I should take it.”
“Absolutely not,” he insists, that stubborn look I’m starting to recognize settling in. “I’ve slept in worse. And this is my fault.”
“Your fault? I’m the one who started this fake engagement mess!”
“But Martha booked the room, and she works for me.”
“That is the most ridiculous logic I’ve ever heard,” I snap—equal parts annoyed and weirdly touched.
“I’m full of surprises,” he says, that half-smile doing that annoying thing to my stomach again.
I finally give in and take the bed while he settles onto the couch. We get ready for the night in an awkward danceof avoidance and exaggerated politeness, taking turns in the bathroom like uncomfortable roommates.
Lying in this far-too-big bed, I stare up at the ceiling in the dark. The day replays in my mind—defending his project, the look he gave me afterward, the unsettling ease with which we played a couple.
Across the room, I hear him shifting on the couch, probably trying to find a comfortable position on furniture that clearly wasn’t built for someone his size.
“You awake?” he asks.
“No. Too much on my mind.”
“Like what?”
I hesitate, then answer honestly.
“Like the fact that I didn’t have to fake defending your project today. That’s… unsettling.”
Silence stretches, and I wonder if I’ve said too much.
“Thank you for that,” he says finally. “You were amazing.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised. Impressed. You really understand what I’m trying to do with the distillery.”
“Don’t get carried away, McKenzie. I still have plenty of reservations about your more extreme ideas.”
His quiet laugh drifts through the dark.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, McGregor.”
Another silence settles—this one easier.
“Do you think MacKinnon knows something?” I ask. “About the treasure?”
“Probably not. Just old stories…”
