Page 3 of Lochlan

Geordie places his glass down with quiet defiance, narrowing his eyes. “You know that decision comes from the winemaker, not the upstart manager.”

I resist the urge to pull rank to enforce my instructions. “What do you think?” I challenge. Wine and spirits have been our family business for a few hundred years. If I've missed something, I want to know.

He glances down at his glass and considers. “Aye, the Santa Barbara will do, but I'm waiting on juice from Lodi, a nice wee Cab Franc I think will blend well. I'll work with both.” He shifts his bulk out of the chair. “I had a talk with Granda.”

Alarm crackles through my system at this not-so-off-handed mention of the family's patriarch. “How is he?” I ask, hiding the anger that he called Geordie and not me.

“Good, good.” He glances around the room, not able to focus on anything. “He says he's coming to America.”

Ice forms in my veins at the notion. “What does that crafty old bastard have on his mind now?” I ask. “Why is it important to come all the way out here now; wasn't my banishment to America enough?

Geordie absentmindedly rubs his beard, searching his memory. “He didn't say exactly. I'm guessing he wants to see the operation. I'm sorry to say there's another piece of information about his visit you should know. If he hasn't contacted you by now, I guess he's leaving it up to me to tell you the news.” Geordie sighs. “He's bringing Fiona with him.”

CHAPTER2

COURT OF THE CRIMSON QUEEN

KENZIE

In the cool darkness of my bedroom, I've stretched out on my bed, wallowing in pity and resignation. Unable to breathe through my nose, I'm reduced to a cave-dwelling mouth-breather. Cotton balls have taken up residence in my head and, although my nose is stuffed, it won't stop leaking. I feel awful and look like shit, with a red nose and ratty braids. For the last week I've had this stupid cold and if it gets worse, I'm taking a plane back home to die.

Muffled footsteps approach from the narrow, carpeted hallway. I'm cocooned from head to toe under a heavy quilt and two blankets. I can't be bothered to stir, I'm so tired. I close my eyes and fold my hands over my belly in a serene pose, ready to welcome the Grim Reaper. The apartment is not large, so it takes only a few seconds for the intruder to enter my room and hover silently near my bed. I take a deep breath and hold it to prevent a fit of coughing that's about to erupt. Maybe I'll have my deliverance before this cough bursts from my chest for the millionth time.

Something claws at the blankets, bunching the fabric in its hands until it's ripped from my frail, infirmed body. I cringe as I'm exposed to the unheated room. I quickly reposition my arms protectively about my body. One eye opens slowly, curious to see what will bring me to my eternal salvation.

Pru's pissed-off face looms over me. “Jeez, Kenzie. You've only been to your room and the bathroom? At least that's what the trail of wadded-up tissues indicates,” my roommate says, dropping the blanket back on top of me.

I groan and turn on my side, away from her, grabbing at the cover and pulling the warmth back over my frame. “Go away; let me die in peace.”

“You missed one of QC's great team-building events today,” Pru says, flouncing onto my bed in her blue party dress.

Poppy, our self-proclaimed captain, likes to be addressed as Queen C or QC. The full term is Queen Crimson, but no one calls her that. She likes us to use her initials or a cool shortened version of her name, like a rock star. Poppy calls these team-building events her court sessions. “That shouldn't be a sanctioned outing for our club,” I say.

“It is for this club.” She peers at me again. “You need to get well ASAP and join us, before Poppy thinks you're antisocial.”

Sitting up, my back rests against the headboard. I've been a member of the Crimson Beaches Volleyball Club for a few months, since moving here from Southern California. Anyone can tell you I'm a strong player, dedicated to the sport, and I work as hard as anyone in the club. I've made all the practices and games, but I've been avoiding the social part. Really, what I'm avoiding is my initiation into the club.

Pru's eyebrows knit together. “I know you're worried about the challenge. It's not as bad as you think.”

I say nothing. I've heard stories, but no one who has gone through the challenge can talk about it. People think hazing only occurs on men's teams, but the women are just as bad. I push the tiny wave of anxiety to the side before it turns into a bonfire. “I heard you all went out to dinner?”

Pru's eyes get a little dreamy. “Poppy had a surprise for us. She booked a private wine tasting at the MacTavish Cellars. You'd have liked it, being Scottish.”

I am Scottish on both sides of my family. My full name's MacKenzie Athdara MacGregor, surnames from both sides of my family tree. Others have sneaked onto that noble oak, which explains my dark hair and golden skin. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, if your idea of a good time is spending it with four huge men in kilts; five, if you count the first guy. Although I didn't catch his name.”

“So, you think you like Scottish men?” I tease. “Maybe I can introduce you to one or two. They're certainly enough of us around, even here in California. I could probably find someone through the Scottish network; Dad likes to call it the oat and haggis connection.”

Pru scoots her butt back to the headboard with me. “I don't think all the servers there were Scottish.” She does that dreamy look again, adding a sigh. “Preston said he's Jamaican. He said as far as he can tell, the men have to be over six feet and have wine knowledge. Same for the women, but with no height restriction.”

“Sounds like a fun place to work; hand me the tissue box.” I motion to her.

Pru leans over to retrieve the box and hands it to me. “Preston says MacTavish Cellars embraces the diversity of Silicon Valley, which is reflected in their staff.” She bursts into giggles. “It sounded like he was reading off a company brochure. I didn't care, I just stared at him and sipped wine.”

“What is it?” I ask, giggling myself without understanding the point.

“Seriously, those guys were all ripped. They looked like they could all be in a Vegas male dance review. Every one of them was charming as fuck, like they'd been trained to flirt as part of the job. When we finished there, we went for a second tasting at another winery, and the hipster guys in that tasting room were cute but underwhelming after MacTavish.”

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