Page 19 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Eighteen

When the sun’s rays tickle my cheeks, I open my eyes and remember I’m here, in the butt-crack of dawn, plopped in the middle of God-knows-where and God-knows-when.

As I reach up and stretch toward the emerging sunlight, my gaze stumbles upon my nocturnal cuddle buddy standing knee-deep in the water.

Buck naked.

My view is all buns and glory from where I’m perched, enough to rev up my hunger for a robust Scottish breakfast. Silently, I pray to the brunch gods that they don’t skimp on the sausage.

“Well,” I yell towards his bare backside while suppressing a laugh, “someone’s certainly making themselves at home!”

His laughter echoes off the loch. “Ah, Mills, yer awake! Shield those beautiful peepers for a sec while I make myself decent.”

I roll my eyes but obey nonetheless. When he tells me I can look again, he’s standing ever so close: jeans hugging his hips but still shirtless and barefooted, water droplets cascading down onto me.

“Goddammit!” I internally groan, but it quickly morphs into an internal growl.

Seriously, universe? Can you throw me a bigger curveball?

First, I time-travel, and now I’m getting an unsolicited peep show from a Highland Adonis. Holy smokes, the man is blazing! If this isn’t a test of my resolve—and sanity—I don’t know what is.

If he’s not on today’s menu, then someone better bring me a piping hot cup of coffee, stat.

Once I catch my breath, I notice Cal trying to start a fire. I hoist myself up to help gather twigs, shaking my head at this wild twist life has taken. Scotland promised adventure and inspiration; instead, it handed me a sizzling epic saga.

“Look at this,” Cal blurts out suddenly, thrusting a limp fish into view with an ear-to-ear grin that screams victory.

“Caught it with me bare hands.”

“Well done, you!”

Biting back both repulsion and amusement at his delight over his catch du jour, I let out an airy chuckle without probing for any gory details about its downfall.

I’ll sit tight and enjoy the view. I mean, really, who wouldn’t be grateful to have their very own Highlander on board for such a wild ride?

Cal gets the fire roaring with a finesse that makes my previous struggles with the cottage fireplace look downright pathetic.

“How do you do this so effortlessly?” I marvel as we find our seats on an old fallen tree trunk warmed by the flickering flames.

He’s busy threading fish onto a stick for grilling and shoots me a grin that’s pure boyish mischief.

“Boy scouts for six years, and a firestarter survival knife in my back pocket.” He flicks open a steel, cord-wrapped knife with a wink, then closes it and tucks it back into its sheath in his jeans pocket.

We burst into laughter so infectious it leaves me wiping tears from my cheeks. When we finally regain control of our breaths, I figure it’s time to show him I can also handle whatever curveballs this adventure throws.

“So, no sign of pirates or wildcats yet,” I venture, “Maybe we’ve landed in an era that’s not completely uncivilized?”

“Dinnae go counting yer chickens just yet, wee story,” he says, his voice threaded with affection and caution.

“Let’s keep our cards close until we have a better sense of this place and maybe make some allies.

Our modern clothes and lingo could get us into serious trouble–they’ve hung people for less. ”

“Do you think they even speak English here?”

“From what I remember readin’ at the church, English started trickling in around 1500 but wasn’t exactly embraced. We should stick to Scots Gaelic until we hear what’s being spoken. Just try to follow my lead.”

After filling up on grilled fish breakfast and extinguishing the fire, we head towards what appears to be a church steeple in the distance. As we near what looks suspiciously like a village, butterflies take off in my stomach.

“Cal, hold up a sec!” I call out, urging him to freeze mid-stride.

“You know I can’t speak Gaelic! I need a strategy here. How do I avoid looking suspicious? Should I pretend to be mute? Or act like I’ve taken a vow of silence?”

Cal chuckles. “Aye, that might just work! Just claim you’re a traveler, and for the love of God, don’t mention selfies.”

“Hilarious,” I roll my eyes. “But first things first, we need clothes from this era. My boots and your boat shoes are screaming alien invasion. ”

A smirk tugs at his lips as he glances at our mismatched footwear.

“Can’t argue there. But I think your boots suit ye. They’re very 21st-century woman kicks adulting to the curb.”

I laugh and shake my head at him. “Seriously though, blending in is key. We need to find a clothing shop or something along those lines.”

Walking into the settlement feels like stepping back in time, with cobblestone streets underfoot and quaint thatched-roof cottages everywhere we look. It’s like being inside a postcard from Scotland’s past.

As we wander through the village, what would be Cal’s brother’s pub, without its usual cheeky sign, comes into sight. Instead of The Tipsy Trow, MacDowells’ Inn and Tavern is proudly displayed above the door like a family crest, sending waves of surprise crashing over Cal.

His eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “Well, tickle me tartan,” he murmurs, his words barely louder than the hushed wind.

“I might end up having a pint with my great-great-grandpappy!”

“Why not introduce yourself as a long-lost cousin?” I suggest, trying to suppress the giggles bubbling up within me. “We wouldn’t want to cause some sort of time-travel anomaly or something.”

“Smart move,” he says with a small nod. “But navigating clan politics without knowing their secret highland handshakes could be like dancing on thin ice. We need to tread lightly.”

“Absolutely. Let’s keep our true identities under wraps for now and try to blend in.” The idea of donning period clothing sends a thrill of excitement coursing through me, rivaling even our unplanned jump through time.

We meander through the village, drinking in its quaint charm.

It’s serene—no cars zipping by or electric wires slicing across the sky.

Just cobblestone paths beneath our feet and an uncanny silence echoing off deserted stone cottages.

The only sounds punctuating this stillness are chirping birds and distant rhythmic clanging from a blacksmith’s forge.

“There,” Cal points out a tiny shop with MacTavish’s Clothing and Cobblery etched onto a wooden sign swinging above its entrance.

“Cobblery?” I quirk an eyebrow.

“It’s an old term for shoemaker. See?” His grin widens. “There’s more to this Highlander than just rugged good looks.”

I roll my eyes but can’t resist cracking a smirk.

“Let’s hope they carry our sizes. And take plastic.” Cal adds with a playful wink.

The bell above the door chimes as we shuffle into the shop, a warm welcome from an otherwise antiquated setting. An older man’s eyes lift from his workbench, crinkled lines of wisdom decorating his weathered face like a road map of life.

“Good day to ye,” he greets us in English, his voice thick with a charming Scottish brogue. “I’m William MacTavish. What can I do fer a bonny lass and a braw lad such as yerselves?”

I shoot Cal a wide-eyed look, my heart pounding like I’ve just run a marathon. He steps forward, clearing his throat in an attempt at nonchalance.

“We, uh, we’re travelers… in need of some clothing. And shoes. We’ve had a bit of a... mishap.”

A twinkle ignites in the man’s eyes. He clearly finds our predicament amusing. “Aye, I can see that. Ye’ve been through the wringer.”

“But I’ve seen yer… kind… before,” he smiles warmly. “Pleased to help ye blend in using clothes traded by patrons over the years.”

“That would be grand, thank you,” Cal says sincerely.

The cobbler asks about our clan affiliation, and Cal hesitates before answering. Every muscle in his body tenses up as if preparing for battle.

“I’m a MacDowell… if that’s acceptable here?” His gaze locks onto the cobbler’s as if telepathically attempting to communicate our precarious situation .

To our relief, the man takes it all in stride and even winks knowingly at us while scurrying around his cluttered shop to gather clothes for us.

I lean into Cal and whisper so low only he can hear me, my voice wavering: “Do you think he knows? That we’re not locals?”

Cal shrugs. “I’m not sure. Dinnae worry. If he does suspect somethings off-kilter, he seems quite unfazed.”

The cobbler returns shortly after with a breathtaking cream-colored gown. I duck into the back room to change into it. It hugs my waist and flows down to my ankles like a silk waterfall. But I know better than to let aesthetics win over practicality in this strange era we’re stuck in.

“It’s lovely, but do you have women’s breeches?” I ask him as he’s gathering more clothes in the front room.

“Breeches? For a lady? You’ll stand out like a thistle among roses!” He seems visibly taken aback by my request.

“Nevertheless, it’s what I prefer,” I insist, suddenly realizing I need to justify why. “I’m from Glasgow. We’re very fashion-forward.”

He shakes his head, a click of disapproval escaping from his tongue, but he humors me anyway, handing over a white blouse, a pair of brown breeches and a sturdy leather belt .

As I’m cinching the belt around my waist in the back room, Cal saunters out from behind some crates packed with leather and tools.

My breath snags in my throat as I drink him in; he’s decked out in a vibrant green and blue kilt that the cobbler tells us is the MacDowell tartan.

A crisp white shirt clings to his muscular form like it’s been painted on, accentuating every solid inch of him.

When the cobbler steps away, Cal explains that the leather and cream horsehair pouch hanging at the front of the kilt serves as a handy wallet. I can’t stop staring. The whole get-up makes him look both rugged and regal; he’s like the embodiment of the Scottish Highlands themselves.

Cal twirls me around playfully in my new garb, sashaying us back to the front room, an appreciative spark lighting up his eyes.

“Mills,” he drawls, “ye’re lookin’ quite bonnie in those breeches.”

I curtsy extravagantly in response, laughter bubbling up from deep within at our delightfully absurd predicament.

Here we are, marooned in an era so distant from our own it feels like we’ve tumbled into a history textbook, yet all I can think about is how ridiculously lucky I am to be wrapped up in this time-warp fiasco with this dreamy Scottish hunk.

My gaze flicks back to the cobbler, who’s now brandishing a large pair of leather boots.

“Just crafted these. They ought to fit ye, lad,” he announces, passing them off to Cal.

Then, he turns his attention towards me and presents a pair of dainty yellow slippers embroidered with delicate flowers and impossibly thin soles. I cringe at the thought of the splintered wooden floor beneath my feet.

“Um, thanks,” I manage to say, “but do you have something more... practical? Like boots?”

The older man arches an eyebrow at me, sizing me up. “A lass wanting breeches and boots? You’re quite the oddity.”

I can feel heat creeping up my cheeks, but before I can stammer out a response, Cal jumps in.

“She’s unique. But in the best way possible.”

The shoemaker chuckles before disappearing into the back of his shop and returning with a pair of sturdy leather boots that look my size.

“These should do the trick,” he says, handing them over with a pair of stockings. “Can’t have you wandering around bare-legged now, can we?”

The boots are simple but well-made–built to last, just like the man standing beside me, his hand resting lightly on my lower back.

“As for payment...” Cal starts cautiously, “...we’re new in town and looking for work. Could we help ye out here to cover yer craftsmanship? ”

Cobbler MacTavish mulls it over before responding.

“Our village’s grand fair takes place tomorrow in the town square.

I could use extra hands to set up and take down my stall.

.. and maybe even model these boots.” He shoots us a mischievous wink and adds: “Might even make me a sign: Boots Fit for the Future.”

Cal and I exchange glances before quickly looking away, trying to suppress our laughter.

“I’ll need ye here before the sun’s at its highest point,” the cobbler continues. “Yer hard work will cover the cost of the boots, and I’ll even throw in an extra shilling each for yer day’s wages...” He pauses before asking, “Do we have a deal?”

With synchronized nods, we express our relief.

“Thank ye, sir, we’ll be there,” Cal assures him, reaching out for a firm handshake.

The cobbler shakes his hand and gives us another once-over, his brows furrowing in curiosity and suspicion. “Ye two are a peculiar duo, I’ll admit. There’s an air about ye... something uncommon.”

I lose my breath, paranoia creeping in. Is it that obvious we’re time travelers? Are we about to be exposed?

But Cal chuckles. “Uncommon, ye reckon? Well, we do strive to be memorable.”

The cobbler shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curving upward into a knowing smile. “Just mind yerselves out there. These are strange and dangerous times.”

With a final nod of gratitude to our newfound friend and footwear provider, we step out into the lively streets of Aven Valley.

The town is awake now, its heartbeat echoing through the cobblestones underfoot.

The air is thick with laughter and snippets of hushed conversation punctuated by the occasional horse whinnying or dog barking.

The scent of freshly baked bread, comforting and familiar, drifts from a nearby bakery to tease my senses. It serves as a gentle reminder that despite the unfamiliarity of this place, some things persist, irrespective of where or when one finds oneself.

Strolling down the cobblestone lane in our vintage (okay, ancient) garb and boots, exhilaration sparks inside me, bubbling up like champagne at a New Year’s party. We’re not just tourists gawking at history from behind a velvet rope; we’re right in the heart of it, side by side.

The reality that we’re stuck here is barely a murmur in my mind, entirely overshadowed by the thrill of this unforeseen escapade. It feels like we’ve been handed an unexpected treasure, a chance to meet Cal’s ancestors—maybe even mine—and soak up knowledge from an era long gone .

I slide my hand into Cal’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Ready to tango with the unexpected?”

His grin widens as he looks down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“With you, wee story? Always.”