Page 12 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Eleven
As our laughter fades, Cal gives me this affectionate and warm look that has my heart doing somersaults.
“How about we swing by my parents’ place ’afore I take ye to mine for dinner?”
I nod, and suddenly, I’m buzzing with anticipation.
Cal leads me along a well-trodden path toward the stone farmhouse we saw earlier. It looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a Grimms’ Fairy Tale storybook. As we get closer, he explains that it’s been home to generations of MacDowells.
“It was built in 1640, but rooms have been expanded, and Da and I built this wraparound porch last summer,” he smiles proudly, opening the front door for me.
“Mum? Da?” his rich Highland accent fills the cozy family room as we step inside.
The room has aged wooden beams and a hospitable fireplace that exudes warmth and tales of the past. Large windows punctuate the walls, inviting in an abundance of natural light that dances playfully across the room.
The flickering firelight wraps around us like a warm hug, illuminating Caitriona MacDowell’s fiery red curls as she emerges from the kitchen with a face glowing brighter than the hearth itself.
In her soft Gaelic lilt, she says something to Cal that sounds like music but is completely lost on me. He replies with an equally melodic phrase and then grins at me like he’s just won a prize.
The warmth of their dwelling envelops me like that first ray of sunshine after a frosty winter. Cal’s mum asks if we’ve had our afternoon tea yet.
“I’d be thrilled to partake in your Scottish traditions, Mrs. MacDowell,” I respond, doing my best to play it cool despite my excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
She waves me off with a broad smile. “Ah, call me Cait.”
“And ye can call me anything but late for supper,” adds Colin MacDowell from his chair, lifting a thick white eyebrow and giving me a cheeky wink.
As we settle around the sturdy wooden table, the air fills with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea and buttery Scottish shortbread. Cait effortlessly switches between English and Gaelic throughout our conversation—it’s clear that their language holds a special place in their family history.
Curiosity piqued, I ask Cal about his fluency in Scots Gaelic. He admits that while he knows enough to get by, he’s no match for his parents’ proficiency. But there’s pride in his voice when he speaks about this linguistic legacy passed down through generations of MacDowells.
Basking in the infectious laughter and tales being spun around the dinner table, I’m swaddled in a warmth that’s as inviting as Cal.
We’re nestled within the rustic charm of his family farmhouse, and it’s here that I witness Cal’s unwavering loyalty to his roots.
The farmhouse walls seem to pulse with the rhythm of age-old stories, their essence stitched into every creaking floorboard and faded family portrait.
“Here ye go, Mum,” Cal says as he effortlessly refills her teacup without missing a beat in the conversation.
“Oh, thank you, ye’re a good lad,” she replies with a warm smile that mirrors his own. Her eyes twinkle with pride and affection as she looks at him.
Across the table, Cal’s father chimes in with another tale from Cal’s childhood. “Remember when you tried to ride old Goliath, our meanest steer, when ye were just six?” He chuckles heartily at the memory.
Cal groans playfully, but there’s an undeniable sparkle in his eyes. “Aye, Dad,” he replies good- naturedly. “I remember landin’ on me arse more than anything.”
Everyone bursts into laughter again—even Cal, despite his embarrassment—and I feel grateful to have been included in their intimate circle of fond memories.
As I watch their easy banter and mutual respect, it dawns on me that for Cal, family isn’t defined by blood alone. It’s an unshakable bond cemented by time-honored traditions and shared experiences. It’s love served alongside hearty meals and steeped in cups of tea.
After we bid his parents farewell, Cal guides me down the hill and a winding old path that leads to Rosewood Lane.
“Cal,” I start, my voice laced with uncertainty. “What did your mother say in Scots Gaelic back there? When she first met me?”
He rubs at the stubble dusting his chin, a thoughtful look settling in his eyes. “Aye, Mills, I had a feeling you’d be like a dog with a bone about this,” he answers.
I chuckle and give him a playful nudge. “Well then? I didn’t spend my afternoon wrestling with your stubborn cow for nothing. Spill it.”
He translates his mother’s words: “She said, ‘That bonnie lass is easy on the eyes, but I bet she’s got some fire inside her. Some teine ’ na broinn .”
Heat crawls up my cheeks, but when I spot Cal doubled over with laughter, my embarrassment morphs into amusement.
“Do you agree with her?” I ask once he’s regained his composure.
“A lady’s always right, especially me Mum,” he replies, but the crinkles at his eyes tell me he isn’t intimidated by my fiery spirit.
As we approach number three on Rosewood Lane, a warm glow spills from its windows into the twilight.
His place looks newer than Rosewood Cottage.
It’s bigger and taller, with ‘Laird MacDowell’ etched onto a wooden sign out front.
Inside, the comforting aroma of simmering herbs wafts through the air.
His home is a contemporary haven with historical undertones. In the living room, tartan throws artfully scatter sleek, minimalist armchairs, and two whole walls are embellished with black-and-white photographs in square frames.
An antique wooden table dominates the kitchen, more like a storybook than mere furniture. Its surface is a canvas of intricate carvings, each narrating a chapter of the MacDowell lineage .
“Wow, this is a masterpiece. Did you build it?”
“Aye. Da and my brother Cam helped with the carvings,” he says, quiet pride and affection in his tone.
Is there anything this man can’t do? Next, he’ll probably tell me he bakes award-winning scones in his sleep! If I didn’t know better, I’d assume he was hiding a superhero cape beside the loafers in his closet.
“Feel free to roam around,” Cal suggests, handing me a glass of red wine before rolling up his sleeves to peel and chop vegetables.
“You sure I can’t help out?” I ask, leaning against a kitchen wall. “Or are you carefully avoiding my cooking?” I tease, lifting the wine glass to my lips.
“Quite the opposite,” he says, expertly flipping something that sizzles enticingly in the pan. “Your culinary magic was so impressive it stirred me to reciprocate.”
“Ah, so you’re implying I’ve set an intimidating standard?” I volley back, a grin spreading across my face as I gaze at him over the rim of my glass.
He smirks, meeting my gaze with equal amusement. “I suppose we’ll soon discover if I can rise to yer lofty expectations.”
“Should I brace myself for disaster?” I chuckle as he begins sprinkling an assortment of spices into his simmering creation.
“Prepare to be surprised would be a more fitting sentiment, “ he smiles. “After all, surprises are half the fun of any adventure.”
Cal’s meal is done before I have time to flip through half a chapter of his coffee table book about this part of the Highlands, Easter Ross and the Black Isle .
“Hope you’re famished,” he smiles, sliding a plate piled high with food in front of me on his hand-carved table.
His meal tastes like a fifteen-minute orgasm in my mouth. I realize it’s a vastly bad idea to say this out loud, so when we’re finished eating, I simply say, “Thank you. That was yummy.”
After we scrape the plates and load the dishwasher, Cal puts another log in the woodstove, hands me a glass filled with whisky, and settles beside me on the well-loved living room couch.
“Tell me more of your local folklore. Please?” I ask, partly hoping for inspiration, partly wanting to hear the sexy, theatrical element in his accent again.
His voice drops to a velvety whisper as he begins weaving tales of ancient Scottish lore into the tranquil evening air.
“On moonlit nights, the loch transforms into a portal, whiskin’ people away to a different era.”
“That sounds rather daunting,” I say, more captivated by the warmth and huskiness in his voice than the story itself.
“Or rather, it could be incredibly romantic,” he says softly, his eyes locked with mine.
I can practically hear his heart skipping a beat.
“Picture this: yer in the thick of a historical skirmish, experiencing first-hand the legends ye’ve only ever known from stories. And a romance that defies time.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, and I can feel something new beginning to weave around my heart.
I take a deep breath. “Maybe,” I whisper back, acutely aware of our proximity.
But then memories of Brady’s betrayal surface like evil ghosts from my past. I rise abruptly from my place beside him on the couch.
“I should go,” I stammer out hastily. The room suddenly feels too small and suffocating.
Callum rises too, concern etching across his handsome features. “Amelia. Did I?—”
“No, it’s not you,” I assure him. “I just… It’s late. I need to get up early to write tomorrow.”
Without waiting for his response, I flee into the night, leaving behind comfort, warmth, and something else—something terrifyingly beautiful yet painfully familiar:
The fear of falling too fast.