Page 17 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Sixteen

A week whizzes by since the wild night at the pub with Cal’s clan, lighting a fire in me for all things Scottish.

But my writing? It’s as still as a cat when you call it.

The culprit is a sinfully handsome Scottish distraction who’s taken it upon himself to play tour guide.

We’ve explored every nook and cranny of Eileen Donan castle on the Isle of Skye, visited more historical fortresses than I can count, and drowned ourselves in guidebooks brimming with authentic Scottish lore.

Our days have found a rhythm as comforting as my sea-sprayed sneakers.

We say goodnight at Rosewood Cottage’s door, where I try (and fail) to extinguish the sparks he leaves in his wake, spend nights tossing and turning with dreams of him, and then wake up early to attempt to pour my heart into romantic adventures featuring my new Scottish heroine and hero, Lady Catherine and Sir John of Inverness.

By 9 a.m., just when I’ve managed to cobble together something resembling coherent prose, there’s that knock at my door.

It’s always Cal, clutching a bouquet of tangerine-hued avens flowers and looking like he just stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog, having already worked his fields and taught sailing lessons before breakfast.

It feels like I’m living inside one of my romance novels—only this is way better because it’s real. Yet, despite this dreamy existence, something still feels off in my barely-there novel. It lacks that dash of magic that breathes life into stories.

Perched at the table in the heart of Rosewood Cottage’s snug kitchen, tendrils of steam waltzing up from my Scottish breakfast tea, a wave of incredulity practically bowls me over. It’s surreal to think it’s time to pack up my Highland adventure and head back to reality tomorrow.

My phone is aglow with an avalanche of lively text messages from Lila, Margot, and my crew back home, their words spinning across the screen like they’re late for a flash mob. My thumb hovers indecisively over the digital plane ticket bobbing in this sea of notifications.

A twinge of nostalgia sucker punches me as I come to grips with today being my last dance with Aven Valley. The days have spun together in a delightful mix of belly laughs, unforeseen escapades, and swoon-worthy highlanders (one way more than others).

And while I’ve been busy living my best Scottish life—Brady’s deceit tucked away in some forgotten corner—I can’t ignore the accusing silence from the closed laptop in front of me.

Its dimmed screen screams an uncomfortable truth: My Scottish romance novel has barely grown beyond its first few pages.

I pull in a deep breath, letting the scent of steeped tea leaves tangle with the briny kiss wafting from Moray Firth. Draining my mug with newfound resolve, I set it down on the counter like I’m dropping a gauntlet.

“Alright, then,” I declare to the cottage that feels almost alive. “It’s time to seize this day!”

Having spent a picture-perfect June day sailing Loch Ness’s waters up to Urquhart Castle, Cal suggests an impromptu picnic under the starlit sky by the water’s edge.

With our bellies full and hearts content, we sprawl out in our jeans and sweatshirts on a blue tartan blanket on the beach while moonlight weaves silver threads onto the calm loch.

“You know,” I blurt, shattering our comfortable silence. “I think my book needs a magic haggis hunt.”

Cal chokes on his whisky, the amber liquid teetering dangerously in his glass. His laughter rumbles across the quiet of Loch Ness, bouncing off its glassy surface and pulling a chuckle from me.

“Never met a lass with such a wild imagination and a matching sense of humor,” he admits, his laughter fading into soft chuckles. He slings an affectionate look my way, eyes glistening under the moonlight. “Gotta say, Mills, ye’re rapidly becoming my favorite person to hang out with.”

His words steal my breath away. Heat creeps up my cheeks as I scramble to regain some semblance of control.

“Well,” I start, infusing my voice with light-heartedness to cover up the sudden pounding in my chest. “Here’s an idea: two star-crossed lovers on a hunt for the elusive magical haggis under Scottish moonlight.”

He reclines on his hands, casting his gaze over the glimmering loch. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards into that familiar wry smile as he lets out another low laugh.

“Aye,” he agrees softly, turning back towards me with that same playful spark in his eye. “There’s an undeniable romance about that.”

He’s quiet for a breath. “But if you’re in for Scottish myths and moonlit romances,” he starts slowly, leaning so close I can make out faint freckles dusting across his nose. His voice drops to a whisper meant only for me.

“Remember what the legend says? When the moon is full, and Loch Ness lies still as untouched glass... ye can peer through time itself.”

His gaze locks onto mine as he continues: “All our past eras just shimmer beneath the surface—forgotten dreams waiting patiently for someone brave or foolish enough to take the leap.”

I grab my whisky glass and gulp down its contents before spitting out in disbelief:

“So what? We cannonball into Loch Ness, and poof!—we’re smack dab in another Scottish era?”

“Not quite.”

I brace myself for him to burst into laughter and tell me it’s all a joke, but instead, his eyes narrow, and his face turns serious.

“It requires a special connection—two souls entwined by destiny.” A shiver trickles down my spine despite the warm summer night.

“Legend has it,” he continues, his gaze never leaving mine, “that if those two people leap into the depths together, the loch’s magic will whisk them away to another time and place. ”

My hands are clammy from nervous sweat. “This feels like the kind of magic and spontaneity that’s been AWOL from my life,” I admit, barely above a whisper.

My practical side is now rolling its eyes, dismissing this as nothing more than an enchanting Scottish fairy tale.

But here, with Cal under the moon’s soft caress, his eyes reflecting its glow, I’m teetering on the edge of belief and flirting with the idea that we could be those two souls selected to time travel.

“Aye,” he responds softly, his calloused fingers intertwining with mine. “So, what do ye think? Ready to leap into history with me?”

I hesitate, caught between skepticism and the magnetic pull of his words and touch. My combat boots feel like anchors, holding me steady. My rational part is battling with the side that craves to toss caution into the wind and dive headfirst into uncharted waters.

“Cal,” I start, my voice slightly shaky as I carefully pick my words.

“Even if it were true, I’m not entirely sold on this idea.

Sure, old-world Scotland sounds incredibly romantic, but I have an affinity for modern comforts—plumbing without chamber pots involved, for one thing.

.. and shoes made from more than just leather and nails. ”

Cal’s laughter erupts from deep within him. It’s so rich and warm it sends delightful flips through my stomach .

“Well, ye’ve got a point there,” he admits. “But where’s yer adventurous spirit? Come on, lass! Don’t ye want to see if this legend holds any truth?”

Our gazes lock in a silent dare, urging me to step outside my comfort zone. His intense blue eyes hold mine captive while everything else seems to fade away—my doubts, fears, and even these sturdy boots keeping me tethered to our era.

Cal and the tantalizing allure of magic luring us forward are the only things that matter now.

Plus, damn it, he dared me. Since my university days, when my engineering friends dared me to take a cherry-strawberry Jello ice bath to see if they could set it, I’ve had difficulty resisting a good dare.

“Alright,” I whisper back, surprised at my courage. “Let’s do this! Let’s wade into Loch Ness and see what happens.”

His gorgeous grin illuminates his face brighter than any moonlight. It’s a mix of youthful excitement and something deeper, more profound.

“That’s the spirit!” Cal grins and pulls me up, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze. The infamous loch is just ahead of us, its reputation for twisting reality into Scottish legend looming large.

As we near the water’s edge, the loch seems to hum with an energy that can only be described as otherworldly, its tranquility broken by the odd ripple hinting at something powerful lurking beneath.

A tsunami of excitement surges through me. It feels like we’re teetering on the brink of something spectacular. Of course, absolutely nothing is bound to happen here—but wait until I tell Lila we gave it a shot!

“Ready?” Cal’s voice is barely more than a breath against my ear, sending tingles everywhere.

I nod; words have taken flight, leaving me speechless in this pivotal moment.

Together, we take that last step, my boots and his boat shoes teetering dangerously close to the waterline. “On three, we leap,” he murmurs, his grip on my hand becoming even more solid.

“One, two...” he begins.

“Three!” we shout in unison, and our toes spring off the sand. I can’t help giggling, fully expecting us to land in the loch, have a good old-fashioned water fight, and then return to our whisky, crackers and cheese on our blue tartan blanket.

Instead, our world erupts into a technicolor whirlwind.

A dazzling array of colors dances across the loch’s surface, creating an ethereal glow on Cal’s awestruck face.

It’s like when I witnessed the Northern Lights in Northern Ontario—vibrant ribbons of green, pink, and violet swirling and folding into each other, painting the sky with their mesmerizing display.

The vortex expands at a dizzying pace, its pull intensifying until we’re hovering over the loch’s edge at the precipice of something exhilarating and terrifying. Suddenly, I feel gravity abandon us altogether.

Cal’s hand is wrenched from mine as we’re swept up into the chaos, tumbling headlong through what feels like time itself.

Images flicker past in rapid succession:

Verdant hills peppered with grazing sheep.

Ancient stone castles.

Faces unknown yet strangely reassuring.

“Amelia!” Cal’s concerned voice cuts through the whirl of colors, a lifeline pulling me back from the brink of sensory overload. “Are ye alright?”

“I’m still in one piece!” I call back, laughing breathlessly, my voice barely louder than the vortex’s roar. “Just enjoying the light show!”

The vortex swirls around us like a living thing, its colors shifting and shimmering like a celestial ballet. It feels as if the universe itself has wrapped us in a kaleidoscope of dreams and possibilities.

And then, everything comes to a jarring halt. We land in an ungainly heap on soft grass, gasping for breath as we try to make sense of the unimaginable. Slowly, I lift my head and find myself locked in Cal’s gaze. His eyes are wide with shock and exhilaration.

“Mills,” he pants out breathlessly, his voice thick with emotion and disbelief.

“I dinnae think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

I blink rapidly to clear my vision as I stand there, trying to process what I’m looking at. The rolling hills and jagged cliffs seem familiar yet eerily different; everything has an uncanny aura. Even the stars appear too brilliant for a 21st-century night sky.

“Cal...,” my voice breaks the silence of the night as I stammer out words that seem impossible even to myself:

“I don’t think we’re in our own freaking time anymore!”

Cal pushes himself upright from the unfamiliar grassy terrain we’ve landed on and offers me a hand. His brows knit together as he takes in the alien landscape.

“Take a look around,” I tell him, my voice trembling with fear and exhilaration. “There isn’t a single hint of the 21st century—no power lines, no streetlights. Just an ocean of stars!”

He squints into the shadowy expanse and does a slow pirouette, absorbing every detail of the pristine wilderness encircling us before his gaze locks onto mine again. When he finally breaks our silence, doubt flickers in his eyes.

“All these years... I’ve been spinnin’ this tale... never fully believing it myself. The legend... It’s real?” His voice is laced with disbelief as he grapples to understand what his words imply.

“Mills,” he begins cautiously after a pause that feels like years rather than seconds. “It looks like we’re still in Aven Valley... just perhaps not during a time when jeans and boat shoes are considered fashionable.”

His gaze drops to our glaringly modern footwear, and his lips quirk in a wry grimace.

“We may need to get our hands on some period-appropriate attire if we dinnae want to stick out like sore thumbs.”