“‘Some alliances are written in the stars.’ What do you think he meant?”
“I don’t know,” Alistair says, his voice heavier with fatigue. “But I think we’re onto something. Something our families have kept hidden for generations.”
I turn onto my side, facing the couch even though I can’t see him.
“So we keep digging?”
“Absolutely.”
“Goodnight, Alistair,” I murmur, suddenly very aware of the intimacy of this moment in the dark.
“Goodnight, Keira.”
As sleep starts to pull me under, one unsettling thought lingers?—
The line between our professional arrangement and something more personal is starting to blur. And I’m not entirely sure I want to draw it again.
I fall asleep wondering if this is still just a charade… or if it’s becoming something else.
Something real. Something deeper. Something a little terrifying.
Something that might have been written in the stars—whether I like it or not.
CHAPITRE 17
ALISTAIR
The weekend in the Highlands
If I had to pinpoint the exact moment I lost all common sense, it would probably be when I saw the weather alerts warning of an incoming storm in the Highlands… and still decided to get on the road anyway.
And yet, here we are—my so-called fiancée and I—inside my luxury Range Rover, battling winds strong enough to bend a centuries-old oak and rain so relentless I can barely see past the hood.
“Do you want me to say ‘I told you so’ in Gaelic or English?” Keira asks, gripping the handle above the door as I navigate a particularly treacherous curve.
“Neither will be necessary,” I reply, with a dignity I am far from feeling. “I maintain that leaving this morning, when the sky was still blue, was the logical decision.”
“Of course. And ignoring the three orange weather alerts on your phone was perfectly reasonable too,” she shoots back. “Right up there with dismissing your assistant’s suggestion to book an extra night in Edinburgh.”
I clear my throat, unwilling to admit she’s entirely right. My Scottish pride—the same pride that pushed us out of Edinburgh’s comfort and into this chaos—won’t let me concede my poor judgment.
“The forecast mentioned a ‘possibility’ of a storm, not a biblical flood.”
“Ah yes, that explains the animals lining up two by two along the road,” she says dryly, gesturing toward what turns out to be a pair of deer huddled under the trees.
I’m about to respond when the car suddenly skids on a patch of water, sending us lurching toward the ditch. Instinct—and a fair amount of luck—keeps us on the road, but my heart is pounding.
Keira, who practically ended up in my lap during the maneuver, straightens.
“Okay, McKenzie, I’m officially abandoning the idea of making it home tonight,” she says calmly. “Unless your plan is to turn us into an accident statistic?”
“Your concern is touching,” I reply.
But she’s right. Pushing on would be pure madness. Even for a McKenzie.
As if on cue, a sign appears through the curtain of rain:Monarch of the Glen Lodge – 2 miles.
“See?” Keira says, relief obvious in her voice. “The universe is sending us a sign.”
