“Hamish disappeared last night. Given his recent preferences, I thought he might be here.”
“So you’re accusing my estate of harboring a woolly fugitive?”
A grin tugs at his mouth. “I’m not accusing anyone. Just observing that your land seems to house certain irresistible attractions.”
“You’re welcome to search,” I say, gesturing inside. “But I should warn you—we haven’t spotted any four-legged McGregors today.”
“Appreciated.”
We walk toward the main buildings.
“How’s Keira?” I ask, aiming for casual.
“She was fine this morning,” he says, watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Why? You haven’t spoken today?”
“Not yet. We’re meeting later. Highland Games prep.”
He nods. “Those games matter, you know. Not just an excuse to drink and throw logs.”
“I’m aware of their cultural significance,” I say, a little sharper than intended.
“Of course. You’re the big defender of tradition—with your modernization plans and high-tech visitor center.”
I stop.
“My project is about preserving those traditions—making them accessible. If we stay stuck in the past, we disappear.”
Callum studies me.
“That’s exactly what Keira says.”
The words catch me off guard.
Keira and I… agreeing?
It’s both unsettling and oddly satisfying.
We continue across the courtyard, a few workers glancing at us like we’re some rare phenomenon—McKenzie and McGregor walking side by side without fighting.
“If we’re looking for Hamish,” I say, “we should start with Rosita’s pen.”
“Logical.”
But Rosita greets us alone—with what sounds like a distinctly disappointed bleat.
“She looks let down,” Callum observes.
“Maybe she was expecting someone else.”
“Even sheep have romantic expectations, apparently.”
We search the storage areas, fermentation rooms, and aging cellars.
No sign of wool.
“You know,” Callum says as we pass rows of oak barrels, “Keira’s always been fascinated by distilleries.”
“Really?”
