Back to reality
Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d spend my mornings analyzing every glance, every gesture, every micro-expression of Keira McGregor like some obsessive private investigator.
And yet, here I am—sitting in my office at the distillery, trying to focus on financial reports while watching her through the glass partition. She’s working on the boutique designs with a level of concentration that borders on relentless… and more importantly, she’s very carefully avoiding looking in my direction.
Ever since we got back from the lodge, Keira has perfected the art of subtle avoidance. She shows up exactly on time, works with flawless efficiency, greets me politely, and leaves as soon as she can. As if nothing happened in that shepherd’s shelter. As ifwe didn’t almost kiss. As if she hadn’t admitted her feelings went beyond our professional arrangement.
And me—like a complete idiot—I let her.
“Mr. Alistair?”
Martha’s voice startles me. My secretary stands in the doorway, a stack of documents in her hands and an expression that suggests this isn’t the first time she’s called my name.
“Yes, Martha?” I say, attempting to look like a man focused on business rather than obsessed with a certain auburn-haired designer.
“The label samples for the new line have arrived. Would you like to review them with Miss McGregor?”
I glance toward Keira, who looks like she’s turned into a statue.
“Of course. Could you ask her to join me?”
Martha nods and walks over to her. I watch them exchange a few words before Keira rises with the rigid posture of a royal guard and makes her way into my office.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks, stopping just inside the door.
“The label samples,” I say, gesturing to the stack Martha left behind. “I’d like your input.”
She steps closer—but keeps her distance. Like I’m radioactive. Or contagious. Or both.
We go through the proposals in silence. Well—she does. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, noting the way her brow furrows when she concentrates, how she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking.
“This one,” she says finally, pointing to a clean, elegant design with gold detailing. “It respects the distillery’s heritage while adding a contemporary edge.”
“I agree,” I reply. “But what do you think about integrating the family history? We could reference the historical collaboration between our families.”
She freezes.
Completely still. Like I’ve hit pause.
“I… that’s an interesting idea,” she says, in a tone that clearly means the opposite.
“Keira, we need to talk about what happened at the lodge.”
“Nothing happened at the lodge,” she answers too quickly.
“Nothing? Really?”
“We had an interesting conversation. That’s all.”
The words hit like cold water.
“An interesting conversation,” I repeat. “That’s how you describe what happened in that shelter?”
Color rises to her cheeks, confirming she remembers every second of it.
“We almost made a mistake,” she says quietly, avoiding my gaze. “Thankfully, we were… interrupted.”
“By a sheep.”
