My mother always said McKenzies had a talent for complicating their own lives.
Apparently, it’s hereditary.
My phone buzzes.
CALLUM McGREGOR
Jane and I are hosting a barbecue Saturday. You coming? With your fiancée, of course. Maggie insists you both help prep for the Highland Games.
The Highland Games.
I’d completely forgotten.
Every summer, the whole community gathers for traditional games—and this year, as a newly engaged couple, Keira and I are expected to participate.
Together.
As a team.
With physical contact required for half the events.
I run a hand through my hair.
If she can barely handle a conversation in my office, how is she going to react when I have to guide her through a caber toss?
I type my reply.
ALISTAIR
We’ll be there. Keira will be thrilled.
That might be the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
The next morning,Keira arrives in what I’ve come to recognize as her professional armor—sharp suit, hair pulled back, expression neutral. She greets me with a polite nod and heads straight to her desk.
I wait until she’s settled before approaching.
“Morning, Keira. Sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you,” she replies without looking up.
“Good. I’ve been invited to Callum and Jane’s on Saturday—for a barbecue before the Highland Games.”
That gets her attention.
“The Highland Games?” she repeats, her voice going flat.
“You know—caber toss, sack races, tug-of-war…”
“I know what the Highland Games are, Alistair. What I don’t understand is why we have to participate.”
“As an engaged couple, we’re supposed to represent the union of our families. It’s symbolic—and you know that.”
“Symbolic,” she echoes.
“Keira, it won’t be that bad. A few games, some tradition, Maggie will be happy.”
“She will,” she says, in a tone that suggests Maggie’s happiness is not her top priority.
