Page 10 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Nine

As I wriggle into my go-to jeans, the ones that somehow make me feel both adventurous and stylish—a fashion unicorn—I’m once again ambushed by the low ceiling. My head narrowly dodges the sloping beam, and I shoot it a stern glare.

“Not today,” I warn it, flexing my toes defiantly inside my socks. “Today is a fresh start. Nothing’s going to rain on this parade, especially not me.”

Victorious over architectural eccentricities for now, I scamper downstairs, each of my steps making the old wooden floorboards croon like an ancient sea shanty.

The kettle lets out its shrill whistle as I wrap my fingers around the chipped floral mug—the one that only gets more charming with every imperfection.

Then comes a knock—bold and assertive rather than a timid tap you’d expect from a shy neighbor. I bet it’s…

“Callum,” I sigh, wrestling with the old door that clings to its frame like it’s auditioning for Survivor . After a tug-of-war, it finally gives way with an exaggerated groan, releasing a puff of dust.

As morning sunbeams tiptoe over the horizon to bathe Moray Firth in a soft golden glow, there stands Callum MacDowell, all tousled hair and sapphire-blue eyes—looking delicious enough to spread on toast.

His robust figure against the backdrop of dawn makes him seem like he was born from this very landscape, as if these cliffs carved him and these waters smoothed his edges.

He cradles a basket of steaming scones from the local bakery. The buttery aroma wafts up, tickling my nostrils and making my stomach do a happy flip.

“Stick with Cal, lass?” he suggests, the corners of his mouth curving up into a cheeky grin. “Given your heroics out on the Firth, I believe we’re on nickname terms now.”

“Lass? Seriously? Are we time-traveling back to 1645 now?” I blurt out with indignation before I can stop myself.

“It’s my way of showing affection,” he admits, a blush creeping across his cheeks that leaves me momentarily breathless .

“Alright then... come on in, Cal,” I manage to choke out once I’ve regained my senses, beckoning him inside.

As he steps past me into the cottage, his scent—a heady blend of sea air and raw earthiness—hangs behind him like an echo.

There he is again, right up in my personal space.

But shockingly enough, I contemplate letting him cross not just one boundary but two.

“And if you want, you can call me Mills,” I add, taken aback at my willingness to offer a nickname so quickly.

Cal is quiet for a breath. Then he hands over a brown paper bag with a shy sense of anticipation.“I got these for you from Mary’s. Adorable little shop in the village. Couldn’t help but notice yer feet were turnin’ an alarming shade of blue last night.”

I reach inside the bag and pull out the most delightful pair of gray and red tartan slippers. They’re so cozy-looking yet elegant, it feels almost sinful to even think about wearing them. But the floors are cold, and these are calling to me, so I bend down and slip them on my socked feet.

“Aw. They’re a perfect fit! Thanks.” The words catch my throat. Without thinking twice about it, I lean forward and kiss his cheek. “And the scones smell heavenly. Can’t wait to give them a taste test.”

“Me too, I’m famished. Been out on the water coaching wee ones all morning.”

Of course. He sails. He has hip bones like Michelangelo sculpted them. And he works with small children, too.

I inhale and let out a shaky breath. “Well, grab a seat. Let’s dig in,” I manage.

We settle by the window, taking in the endless expanse of the sea. He reaches for the teapot, stopping my clumsy attempt. “Here, let me show a Canuck how to make a proper cup of tea,” he teases, his fingers skillfully swirling the pot three times clockwise.

“Is there a secret handshake too?” I joke, watching him pour out the amber liquid with an almost ceremonial precision.

“Only if you’re serious about your tea,” he replies, a playful twinkle in his eye.

As much as I want to fight it, Cal makes it so easy to let my guard down. I think back to Brady and the heartache he caused me.

This budding attraction feels too good to be true. I should know better than to let myself get swept up in it all again... But then again, who said anything about a romance? This is just friendly banter. Right?

As we savor the scones, I feel myself unraveling like a much-folded map, spilling the beans about my career and current creative rut, which feels as precarious as the cliffs beyond Rosewood Cottage.

I admit to Cal about the pressures from my publisher and how lately, the blank page seems to smirk at me in mockery .

“Writer’s block?” Cal empathizes, his mouth dusted with crumbs. “Farming can be like that too. When the land doesn’t give you what you expect.”

“Hold up. You’re a farmer, too?”

“Born and raised,” he elaborates, his voice carrying the weight of years spent in service to family and land.

“I still lend a hand to my Pops most mornings, then take up teaching sailing in the afternoons.” The simplicity of his words, painting a picture of a life filled with hard work and familial dedication, momentarily soothes the sting of Brady’s betrayal.

The subtle lift of my eyebrows must give my surprise away because Cal’s lips curl into a teasing grin.

“A bit taken aback, are we?” he teases. “My parents own that hilltop farm—the one with the cow that seemed to take a liking to ye.”

“Wait… What?… That was your place?” I stutter out.

“Indeed,” he responds, his tone shifting to genuine regret.

“And about Buttercup, we’re truly, truly sorry. She’s never behaved like that before. After you dashed off, I made sure she was safely back in her stall.”

“Buttercup?” I can’t help but let out a snort at the name. “Well, that’s fitting,” I tease. “But how did you know it was me?”

Cal’s laughter ripples through the air. “Well, it’s not every day a Canadian sashays into a Highland field and… woos… my cows like you did,” he says playfully. “You stood out. Plus, word travels fast in small villages.”

“Oh no. You haven’t heard about Brady Reeves making me look like a complete nincompoop, have you?” I’m sure Inverness is too big, but I need to ask.

My question hangs in the air like a fragile bubble ready to burst. Then Cal shakes his head slightly. “I haven’t, but I find it hard to believe anyone could make ye look foolish, Amelia.” His words are heavy and meaningful, creating a charged silence between us.

“Well,” I admit in a whisper, “he made me feel like one.”

Cal must pick up on the slight wobble in my voice when I mention Brady’s name. He threads gentleness into his next question: “So, he wasn’t exactly your prince charming?” There’s an understanding in his tone that acknowledges the hurt without demanding details.

I offer a nod. “I was on the verge of hightailing it back home...” My voice trails off as I wave my hand vaguely at our surroundings.

“And yet,” he gently completes my thought, “instead of fleeing, you found solace here, in Rosewood Cottage.” His gaze is so electrifying that it sparks warmth throughout my body.

“So... that’s not so bad then,” he says with a flirty smirk. I smile and sip my last splash of tea, trying not to look up at his eyes again.

“Ye know,” he begins again after a moment of silence. “It takes some serious grit to stick around Aven Valley after tangling with both heartbreak and Buttercup.”

He runs a hand over his scruffy chin. “Most would’ve thrown in the towel and bolted home. But you... you’re different. That’s something to be admired.”

“That’s... unexpectedly kind,” I admit, my words a soft murmur.

An unfamiliar tremor ripples through my heart. I’m on the verge of launching into my signature sarcasm, but I find myself pausing, teetering on this precipice between vulnerability and joy.

“Surely, though, it takes more than slippers and baked goods to heal a wounded heart,” Cal says.

His grin is pure infectious charm, the kind that should be accompanied by a flashing caution sign.

“So. Let’s go mingle with my cattle, lass,” he suggests, rising from his seat.

I cross my arms, skepticism weaving its way into my thoughts. “Hold on. The last time I encountered one of your barnyard friends, it nearly flattened me! Your plan doesn’t sound much more comforting than staying here, eating scones all morning.”

He leans in just enough for me to catch his inviting scent—woodsy earth, spices, and a hint of salty sea breeze.

“Ah, but this time, you’ll have me as your guide. So you’re safe. And trust me, I’m far less crumbly and infinitely more captivating than any scone.”

A smirk tugs at my lips, but I bite down on them to keep from laughing out loud.

Oh, I’m willing to wager his buns are anything but crumbly. Probably more like firm, and astoundingly lickable.

“And,” he throws in with a dash of theatrical confidence, “no one else can show ye the enchanting secrets of these Highlands quite like Yours Truly.”

Unable to hide my amusement any longer, his words pull a soft chuckle from me. “Well, perhaps a tour of this quaint town is just the spark my imagination needs.”

“See? What’d I tell ye? I’m practically overflowing with genius ideas!” Cal says, flashing me a devilish wink that promises nothing short of trouble.

“Come on now, cowpoke,” Cal eggs me on with his sexy Scottish lilt and dimpled grin. I trail after him, leaving behind the inviting warmth of Rosewood Cottage and stepping into the briny tang of Moray Firth’s salty air .

We stroll through the quaint village, where cozy shop windows tempt me with promises of tasty Scottish cuisine. The briny maritime scent intertwines with fresh bread wafting from a nearby bakery while the morning chill playfully nips at my cheeks. I’m thankful for my snug sweater and beanie.

“Here we are,” Cal declares as we reach his farm on the hilltop. Its ancient stone walls stand tall and proud against the canvas of an immaculate blue sky. A half dozen scruffy, rusty-red highland cows graze lazily in the pasture around us.

“Dinnae worry. I’ll only call over the docile ones.

Watch this,” Cal says before placing two fingers in his mouth and letting out a piercing whistle that echoes across the open field.

The cows, previously scattered randomly around their pasture, perk up their heads and start ambling towards us at a leisurely pace that screams ‘no rush.’

“That’s Bonnie leading the pack,” he points to a particularly rotund cow, “then comes Thistle, Heather, Morag, Mae...”

I watch in fascination as each cow seems to acknowledge her name with a glance our way before continuing her unhurried journey toward us. “That’s incredible!” I gush. “Teach me?”

With eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement, Cal shows me how to position my fingers for an effective cattle call.

Once I produce a sound that doesn’t result in panicked bovine scattering—success!

— I decide it’s time to bring a touch of Canada to the Scottish Highlands.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I let loose a loon call, so loud, it reverberates eerily across the landscape.

Cal listens to my loon call for a minute before doubling over with laughter. “Well now,” he manages between fits of chuckles, “that’ll be useful when we’re out on Loch Ness! Might just frighten Nessie herself!”

Perched atop the hill, we survey the sprawling patchwork quilt of green MacDowell fields below us; our shared laughter swept away on the breeze as we take turns practicing our loon calls.

Cal’s attempt sounds more like a distressed trumpet than anything else, much to the apparent offense of two highland cows peacefully grazing in the distance.

Their heads swivel towards us, and they start lumbering our way at an alarming speed.

Yikes, looks like it’s time for a strategic retreat.

My heart starts doing a frantic cha-cha in my chest as I spin on my heel and sprint down the hill. Cal lopes beside me, grinning like a maniac at the cows charging our way.

“They’ve got it out for me!” I squeal, throwing terrified glances over my shoulder.

“Hardly. We’re faster than them. I swear you’re safe,” he chuckles, but he offers me his hand.

“I think they can smell fear,” I pant out, accepting his hand between laughter and desperate gulps of air .

“Or maybe they just have a nose for cute Canadians,” he quips back, squeezing my hand.

Once we’ve put some distance between us and our bovine stalkers, he turns to me with a smirk. “Ready for something a bit more fun?”

I squint at him suspiciously. “That depends on your idea of fun .”

His smirk stretches into a full-on grin. “Milking,” he declares proudly as if that single word solves all the world’s problems.

“Oh joy,” I groan, trailing after him into the barn.

He demonstrates his milking prowess on a cow named Daisy, hands moving with an ease that comes from years of practice. Then he turns to me expectantly. “Your turn.”

“Daisy, don’t make this weird,” I tell her, attempting to mimic Cal’s actions. Instead of a steady stream, I only manage to squirt out a few sad drops, some even missing the bucket thoroughly. The sound of Cal’s laughter is like fuel on my competitive fire.

“Amelia Sutherland doesn’t back down from challenges,” I announce with determination.

“Aye. And she shouldn’t,” he agrees, still chuckling at my expense.

Eventually, after more than a fair share of giggles and spilled milk, I get the hang of it and find a decent rhythm. We’re sitting side by side in the barn, our laughter bouncing off the wood walls, creating an unexpected symphony of shared joy that feels oddly intimate.

He suddenly stops laughing, his eyes touching a depth I hadn’t noticed before.

“Come on,” he says softly. “There’s something else ye need to see.”