Page 1 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter One

The cobblestones of Inverness glisten beneath my heels like rain-drenched sea glass, each stride drawing me closer to the greatest romance of my life.

My suitcase wheels grumble behind me, as stubborn as my mother when I announced this trip. But here I am, drenched and shivering in the cold Scottish rain, a cocktail of jet lag and anticipation coursing through my veins that no airplane coffee could replicate.

As I approach Brady’s front walkway, my knees buckle, and I have to stop.

It feels like they’ve been introduced to a cheap blender after my vertigo-inducing taxi ride from the airport with Hamish, a hulking Highlander whose musical preference can only be described as Bagpipes-Meets-Ultimate Frisbee.

His infectious laughter and kindness had me telling myself, “This is the perfect start to what’s going to be an epic adventure,” even though my gut was doing somersaults of doubt.

As I pause at the corner, memories of Lila and our innocent Facebook sleuthing wash over me.

A few days ago, we stumbled upon a photo that Brady posted.

It was just an offhand shot of his BMW, parked at the end of this street.

But, in the window’s reflection, a small detail caught my bestie’s sharp eye.

A fleeting glimpse of an address revealed itself.

It felt like we had unearthed a treasure, another piece of the puzzle adding to Brady’s captivating mystery and allure.

Shaking off the memory, I let myself get swept up by the adrenaline rush.

The thrill of standing here is intoxicating.

I’m finally in front of that picture-perfect scene: 22 Greyfriars Lane.

Brady’s car sits nonchalantly on the street, just like in his photo.

His slender stone townhouse looms ahead, exuding a shabby-chic charm that sets my heart fluttering with joy.

But something feels off. I’d imagined the window boxes overflowing with purple heather and yellow avens flowers. Instead, they’re dreary and empty, shedding raindrops onto the slate ledge beneath them.

“Never mind. It’s all good, Amelia,” I whisper to myself, an old childhood habit that rears its head when I’m under stress or swamped by emotions. I tighten my grip on my suitcase handle .

“Spontaneous,” I remind myself, “you’re being spontaneous.”

Two days ago, the idea of jetting halfway around the world to surprise my online match had seemed wildly romantic.

As the Scottish spring rain seeps through my so-called waterproof designer jacket and my cream-colored wedges play a precarious game with cobblestone crevices, I’m starting to question my decision.

Suddenly, “impulsive” seems too mild of a word; “deranged” feels more fitting.

If my editor were here, she’d likely be cheering for “bonkers.”

But Brady’s words from our last call echo in my mind:

I wish I could see your face when you read my words, Amelia. The way your green eyes light up when something moves you—it’s like watching the northern lights dance.

How could I not come?

After six months of messages, calls, and sonnets—actual handwritten sonnets that now sit folded in my purse—I couldn’t resist. When your online match turns out to be a Scottish historian who quotes Byron and Herrick, makes terrible puns about historical figures, and hints that he wants to see you in person, you book a plane ticket. That’s just basic facts.

I take a deep breath, tug my black dress and beige jacket straight, and march up the three stone steps to his door.

The blackened brass knocker is shaped like a lion’s head, its muzzle worn smooth from years of use.

I opt for the more modern doorbell instead, which emits a muted chime somewhere inside the house.

My heartbeat seems determined to outpace it.

Footsteps approach from the other side, and I quickly run my fingers through my damp hair, which has probably transformed into its natural state of rebellious waves.

The little mirror in my compact confirmed as much at the airport. “Chocolate brown bird’s nest” would be the accurate description. But Brady has only seen me through unfiltered video calls, at times in PJs, so at least his expectations are already managed.

The door swings open.

And there he is. Brady Reeves.

Taller than I expected—our video calls never captured his full height—with that perfectly styled jet-black hair and those gray eyes that seem even broodier and more piercing in person.

He’s wearing black Oxford shoes (of course, fashion-conscious and brainy), gray dress pants, and a black cable-knit sweater that looks so appropriate for a rainy Scottish afternoon that I almost laugh.

Except I don’t laugh because his face drains of color when he sees me, and not in the romantic “overwhelmed with joy” way I’d pictured. More in the “seeing Voldemort at a family reunion” way.

“Amelia?” His voice cracks on the last syllable of my name.

My carefully rehearsed greeting dies in my throat .

“Surprise?” I offer weakly.

His eyes dart over my shoulder to the empty street behind me, then down to my suitcase, before snapping back to my face.

“What are ye?—”

“Brady?” A woman’s voice calls from somewhere inside the house. “Who is it, love?”

The way his entire body stiffens could win awards for physical manifestations of panic. His hand tightens on the door edge as if he’s considering slamming it shut.

“Oh, it’s nobody, love,” he calls over his shoulder, voice suddenly higher. “They must have the wrong address.”

Nobody?

Love?

I feel a cold sensation spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the rain.

As the words register, I notice other details I missed in my initial excitement: the women’s boots by the door, the two umbrellas in the stand, the framed photo on the wall behind him showing Brady with his arm around a smiling blonde.

“Amelia,” he hisses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What are ye doing here? My wife is inside.”

The word hits me like a slap. “Wife?”

He grimaces, running a hand through his perfect hair. “I thought ye knew. I thought we were playing it casual. ”

My mouth opens, closes, opens again. Words swim around my brain like frightened fish, none willing to be caught. “You have a wife,” I finally manage, my voice small and unfamiliar.

“Look, this isn’t a good time. Perhaps we could meet for coffee tomorrow and?—”

“You never mentioned a wife, Brady.” My voice grows more pungent as anger begins to replace shock. “Not once in six months.”

He shrugs, and the casual dismissal of my feelings makes something crack inside me.

“Aye. I thought it was implied. These online things, dating apps, they’re just a bit of fun, aren’t they? A fantasy.”

“You wrote me sonnets!” The words burst out of me louder than intended, and he winces, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “You left me audio messages reading me those sonnets!”

His lips twist into what he may have intended as a charming smile but now looks calculating.

“Oh darling, I can keep writing them if you want...”

I stare at him, really seeing him for the first time. The perfect hair, the yellow gold and diamond-paved Rolex, the practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I’d thought his messages showed depth and passion. Now I wonder how many other women have received his sonnets.

“You told me you were alone,” I say quietly. “You told me you were looking for someone to share your life with.”

“And I meant it, in a way.” He leans against the doorframe, lowering his voice. I can practically see the conniving part of his brain working overtime. “There are different kinds of sharing, aren’t there? Different parts of a life?”

I feel sick. Every late-night conversation, every shared secret, every whispered plan about showing me his favorite places in Scotland. All of it’s tainted now.

“Brady? Is everything all right?” The voice is closer now.

“Fine, darling,” he calls back, his accent suddenly thicker, more performative. “Don’t bother coming out.”

He turns back to me, eyes pleading. “Amelia, please. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“And I did?” The words taste bitter.

For a moment, something like regret flashes across his face. Then he straightens, pulling on a mask of polite detachment. “I never promised you anything concrete. We were having a bit of fun. If you expected more?—”

“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Just stop.”

I take a step back, dignity fighting with humiliation. All those hours on video calls, sharing my deepest thoughts, listening to his stories about growing up in Edinburgh, his dreams of writing a definitive history of Scottish folklore. None of it was real ?

“I’m sorry you came all this way,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry. “If I’d known?—”

“You’d have prepared a better lie?” My voice is steady now, fueled by growing anger. “Or would you have written me a sonnet about how your marriage is just a technicality?”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“There’s no need to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” I laugh, the sound sharp and unfamiliar. “I flew four thousand miles because I thought what we had was real. Because you made me believe it was real.” My voice catches. “But I’m the dramatic one?”

Rain streams down my face, mingling with what might be tears. I can’t tell anymore. I back away, pulling my suitcase with a jerky motion.

“Goodbye, Brady.”

“Amelia, darling, wait—” He reaches out, perhaps remembering the manners his mother taught him, making one last performative gesture for the Canadian tourist he’s strung along.

I turn on my heels—my ridiculous ‘seize the day’ cream wedge heels with red plaid ribbons, which I chose because they make my legs look good and because I thought I’d be walking into a romantic reunion, not a fucking farce. The sudden movement on slick stone is disastrous.

My ankle twists, sending me stumbling forward. I catch myself on the wrought-iron railing, but my dignity is beyond saving.

As I scramble to my feet, cheeks on fire, I catch a soft intake of breath from the entrance—definitely not Brady’s. I glance up to find a short woman with ash-blonde hair neatly tied back, her hand resting on Brady’s arm, bewilderment etched across her face.

“Brady?” she inquires, her gaze flitting between his startled expression and mine. “What’s happening here?”

Before he can even form a word, I intervene. A nervous chuckle slips out as I grip my suitcase with a fervor that reflects my determination to protect this woman. I want to shield her from the lightning-fast cuts slicing through my heart with the precision of an expert chef.

“Oh, hello. B-beautiful afternoon,” I stammer. “I’m just here on a mission to spread the good word. Have you met Jesus? Because if you haven’t, I’ve got some pamphlets that say he’s still taking appointments!”

The woman dismisses me with a shake of her head. “We’re not interested,” she states flatly, walking away.

As he’s about to turn and follow her, I lean closer, my voice dipping into a hushed undertone meant solely for his ears. A faux smile pulls at the edges of my mouth.

“Just a quick observation, I say, drawing out the pause for comedic effect, “We may not have met in person before this moment, but now that we’re here...it seems your humble shoe size is quite in sync with your even humbler...additional features.”

I let the insinuation linger like a mystery, shooting him a pointed glance before spinning on my heels and marching away with as much grace as I can muster amidst the internal earthquake.

I bite back angry words. I’ll keep my cool in this total trainwreck, but if these shoes could talk, they’d be belting out: “You two-timing, poetry-spewing, jackass of a man!” at full volume.

Behind me, Brady’s stunned splutter rings out, punctuated by the satisfying thud of the door closing with finality.

The rain pelts me with an icy vengeance, but at least it’s washing away the putrid stink of Brady’s lies. Behind me, there’s a marriage he nearly tricked me into wrecking.

Ahead? A marathon flight back to Toronto, chock-full of self-doubt and journal entries scribbled with fresh, bitter life lessons.

But right now, it’s just me. Soaked to the bone. Utterly humiliated. But stubbornly determined to never again hand over my heart to some two-timing, gaslighting jerk-face.