Page 13 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Twelve

The wind is practically cackling as it toys with the sail, treating it like a plaything for some impish Scottish fairy.

Cal’s at the helm of this tiny white vessel, handling it with an ease that stirs up a pinch of envy in me.

His perfectly tousled hair seems immune to the gusts sweeping across Moray Firth.

In my packing frenzy back in Toronto, I neglected to bring a hat. To combat my unruly locks, I wrangle them into a scrunchie and take shelter under the hood of a navy sweatshirt Cal graciously offered me.

His bright blue beanie pairs well with his eyes and disheveled sandy blond hair, keeping him warm and fashion-forward.

He’s sporting light denim jeans and a blue windbreaker that mirrors his beanie.

And those well-worn white and blue deck shoes on his feet?

To me, they whisper tales of his sailing prowess.

“I’m chuffed ye accepted my invitation,” he hollers above nature’s boisterous symphony, his eyes tinted with an adventurous glint that borders recklessness. His accent is enchanting—musical even—and I struggle not to let it amplify his handsome features or the bewitching rhythm of his words.

I mean, I need to simmer down inside. The wind’s already doing a number on my breath control as it jostles me about.

“There’s no better way to experience the Highlands than being at its winds’ mercy!”

Mercy, huh? Clinging to the boat’s side as another gust threatens to drown my chocolate-brown hair feels more like survival mode than mercy!

“Well,” I shout back, striving to match his enthusiasm without literally—or metaphorically—falling overboard.

“Turning it down isn’t an option when someone pops an invite in your letterbox with more panache than a Jane Austen hero.

” I flash him what I hope is a confident smile, attempting to mask the fluttering sensation that seems to do a jig in my stomach whenever he’s around.

“Ah, so Mr. Darcy has some competition now?” Cal laughs, taking my literary jab in his stride.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I volley back, maintaining that slight buffer between us.

If there were an invisible line marking ‘safe’ from ‘too close,’ I’d be toeing it like an Olympic gymnast—physically and emotionally.

He doesn’t push for more, and that’s one of the perplexing things about Cal that keeps me on my toes.

One moment, he’s all charisma and disarming smiles, and the next, he gives you breathing room, as if he’s mastered the art of luring you in just enough before letting you float back out to sea. It’s both maddening and captivating.

I look down at my sneakers, noticing how the sea spray has already decorated them with a new speckled design—quite different from their spotless state when I left Rosewood Cottage earlier today.

Shoes do have a knack for reflecting life’s unexpected detours.

And these sneakers? They’re unknowingly navigating through unexplored emotional seas.

“Keep your eyes on the horizon. It’ll help keep ye steady,” he suggests, interrupting my thoughts.

“Right. The horizon,” I echo as if this line where sea kisses sky is a groundbreaking revelation instead of Sailing 101.

But I obey him anyway, fixing my gaze forward.

At the same time, my mind flips trying to process today’s sensory overload: the salty tang tantalizing my taste buds, the vibration of the boat underfoot, and this odd warmth that seems to ignite every time Cal is around—even with the chilly air around us.

“Ye holding up okay there, Mills?” His use of my preferred nickname feels oddly soothing.

“Still dry, so it counts as a win,” I retort playfully, cleverly evading his genuine concern hidden behind his casual question. Physically dry, perhaps, but emotionally? Not even close—not with this emotional tempest Callum MacDowell whips up each time he flashes that heart-thumping grin of his.

Cal’s hands are steady on the tiller, his casual confidence making my heart flutter in a way I haven’t felt before.

My earlier reservations, once as solid as stone, are now slipping away like sand in an hourglass.

His laughter reverberates over the rhythmic splash of Moray Firth, causing strange butterflies to take flight in my stomach.

“Ye know, for someone who claims to be an amateur, you’re taking to this quicker than a Nessie sighting goes viral,” he teases, referencing Scotland’s sea monster legend.

“Guess I’m just full of surprises,” I say, feeling the corners of my mouth betraying me by curling into a smile. Captain MacDowell has an uncanny ability to coax out the version of myself I’ve kept hidden away for safer and less spontaneous occasions.

“Indeed,” he agrees playfully. “And speaking of surprises...”

Before I can question him further, a gust of wind sweeps across us, dangerously tilting the boat. My heart lurches along with it, and my laughter is abruptly replaced by adrenaline.

“Sheet in the jib!” Cal instructs urgently, pointing towards the flapping sail.

“Sheet in the—what? Cal, that sounds indecent,” I protest with an amused snort while scrambling to follow his direction. Despite my lack of technique and understanding of what exactly ‘sheeting in’ means, I yank at the rope with all my might.

“Ye have a dirty mind, Amelia Sutherland,” he snickers. Still, his focus remains locked on navigating us through this unexpected challenge—as does mine when it dawns on me that we could capsize into the frigid Scottish waters.

The wind feels alive, wild, and untamed. It demands all my attention, and I must not let it overpower us. But as I find a rhythm and start working in sync with Cal, the tension in my shoulders dissipates.

“See? You’re a natural,” he says, his approval radiating warmth more effectively than any sweater could.

“Natural disaster, maybe,” I mutter under my breath, but there’s an undeniable lightness in my voice that wasn’t there before. Trusting myself—and him—doesn’t seem as daunting as I had imagined.

“Embrace the unexpected. It’s where the magic happens,” he assures me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Magic, huh?” I say quietly, thinking about old legends and new beginnings.

My life is usually crammed with pressure and deadlines. Maybe there’s room for a little magic.

“Absolutely,” he confirms, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that suggests we’re not just talking about sailing anymore. And for a brief moment—one heartbeat—I allow myself to believe in the possibility.

The boom swings with such sudden force; it’s as if it’s taken a personal offense to my newfound sailing confidence. My heart leaps into my throat, and I duck just in time to avoid a comical blow to the head.

“Steady on,” Cal shouts over the wind, his hands steady and sure as he adjusts our course. “Ye’ve got to sense the wind’s temperament, predict her next move.”

“Her?” I question, holding onto the mainsheet like it’s the only thing separating me from becoming fish food.

“Aye, she’s a fickle mistress, the wind. Treat her right, and she’ll take you places,” he replies with an unwavering calmness that stands out against my internal tempest.

I squint at the sails overhead, struggling to understand their flapping language. “And how do you treat a gust of wind right?”

“With respect, Mills. Always respect.” Cal says. “You don’t control the wind; you dance with it.”

“Dance?” I scoff, feeling about as graceful as rubber boots at a waltz. But then something shifts—the boat catches the breeze just right, and we surge forward, cutting through the water like butter. The thrill sends sparks flying through me.

“See? Just like that!” Cal’s laughter rumbles through the air, and as I glance his way, a dimple winks at me from his cheek, turning his handsome face into something irresistibly adorable.

“You’re smashing it, Mills!”

“Alright then, Captain. Since we’re dancing with nature now, what comes next?”

“First off,” He quirks a brow in playful challenge before continuing smoothly. “Let’s drop formalities, Ms. Sutherland... Next up is harnessing this magic?—”

“Magic?” I interrupt him again as another gust tips us sideways.

“Precisely.” Cal leans into the tilt, effortlessly balancing us out again. “The Highlands are steeped in it. Ye’ve seen the loch, felt the stories breathing through these hills.”

“So, stories breathe now?” I smirk at his poetic words. Cal doesn’t just tell a story; he invites me into it.

“Sure! Everything’s alive here, Mills. Can’t ye feel it?” His gemstone gaze locks onto mine, intense and unwavering.

“Alive with adventure,” he continues. A dare in his tone and an undercurrent of thrill make my heart race.

“I’ve sailed the waters around Scotland, England, Ireland...” His voice trails off, a hint of nostalgia softening his words. “Every place has its unique stories that stay with you.”

“What’s been the best part of your travels?” I ask.

“The thrill of diving into new cultures, discovering history... and a bit about myself too.” He inches toward me, his voice low and hopeful, “I think ye might find some inspiration here too.” His words ring like a welcome call to view our surroundings with renewed curiosity.

The sea spray hitting my face suddenly feels like a baptism in creativity.

“This place... it’s the most inspiring spot I’ve ever stumbled upon,” I confess. “I bet I’ll be burning the midnight oil writing tonight!”

“That’s fantastic,” Cal beams.

“But for now, should we maybe focus on not tipping over this boat?” I suggest playfully.

“Sounds like a solid strategy,” Cal agrees, his laughter echoing across the water.