Page 2 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Two

I trudge down the cobblestone street, trying to clear my head, rain attacking me from every angle as if the Scottish weather itself has joined Team Brady in the Let’s Fuck with Amelia Championships.

My suitcase wheels catch on uneven stones, jerking my arm with each revolution like little reminders of my stupidity.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The word pounds in rhythm with my heartbeat and the raindrops. Who flies across an ocean to surprise a man she’s never met in person?

Oh, that’s right. Me.

Romance novelist extraordinaire who can’t even recognize when she’s living in a plot too clichéd for her own books.

My free hand swipes at my face, raindrops mixing with tears I refuse to acknowledge. The cobblestones beneath my shoes blur into a watery gray canvas .

Damn these impractical, “seize the day” wedge heels. And damn Brady Reeves, with his perfect hair and his perfect wife and his perfect little life that had just enough room for me as his digital mistress.

“Afternoon. Excuse me,” I mutter, carefully sidestepping an elderly man with a walker who’s giving me the pitying look reserved for skinny cats and drowned tourists.

His concerned eyes follow me as I stumble past. I must look like a hot mess—mascara streaming down my face, hair plastered to my skull, designer jacket now functioning as an expensive sponge.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Amelia Sutherland, author of four moderately successful romance novels, just walked face-first into the world’s least romantic scenario. If I weren’t the protagonist of this particular tragedy, I’d be taking notes for my next novel.

My next novel.

Oh, crap.

My stomach clenches as Margot’s voice echoes in my head:

“Darling, Highbury House is getting antsy. They’ve been more than patient, but if we don’t deliver this manuscript by October, they’re pulling the plug.”

My literary agent of eight years isn’t known for sugar-coating things, especially when staring me down in her sleek Toronto office like a principal scolding her delinquent student .

“You need inspiration? Fine. Find it. Seduce a stranger. Join a cult. Go to this writers’ conference in London,” she said, sliding a brochure across her desk. “I don’t give a shit, but for the love of God, write something.”

I flipped through glossy images of writers looking pensively out windows in a converted Victorian manor house. “London in June. That’s...”

“Perfect timing to jump-start the new book and have a complete draft by October.”

My fingers were numb from the air conditioning, but I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as panic disguised as determination. I nodded, mentally calculating how to turn this pressure into something productive.

“I’ll make it work.”

That night, as my anxiety threatened to bloom into a full-scale existential meltdown, I reached out to Lila.

Since our first year at U of T, when she found me crying into my philosophy textbook at an unholy hour, we’ve been practically glued together.

She didn’t say a word then; she just handed over her sacred stash of emergency chocolate like it was no big deal.

Now, she traipses worldwide as a travel photographer, yet as it is with soul sisters, there’s never a time zone too remote or obscure for either of us to pick up each other’s panicked calls.

Lila’s face popped up on my laptop screen in all its freckled glory. Her fiery curls were wrestled into an unruly bun on top of her head, and she was wrapped in a scarf so bright it could have been woven from rainbows.

“Mills!” She greeted me with infectious cheerfulness that shone through the pixelated screen. “What’s up?”

“Just wrestling with my usual demons: self-doubt and deadlines,” I admitted with a shrug. “You know how it is.”

Her laughter echoed around my quiet living room. “Alright! Where are you thinking of heading next? Somewhere exciting enough to kickstart that brilliant brain of yours back into gear?”

“London,” I mumbled, sprawled on my couch with a glass of mediocre pinot noir balanced on my stomach.

“London?” Her voice wobbled slightly, and she sounded tired, understandable, considering she’d just returned from an intense photography expedition in Southeast Asia.

“Mills...that’s so…predictable. Every writer desperate for inspiration heads there.”

I sighed but couldn’t help the grin tugging at my lips. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lil.”

“Listen,” she leaned in, her eyes sparkling with a sudden idea. “I’m not saying don’t visit the UK. But how ’bout somewhere that might shake things up?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Like Scotland? Specifically, Inverness. ”

I choked on my wine. “Where Brady lives? Are you bonkers?”

Lila plowed on, her voice a vibrant splash of color against the grayscale backdrop of my thoughts.

“London is England’s literary heart, sure.

But Scotland? It’s got this raw, untamed spirit.

And Inverness—with its highlands, lochs, and legends—it’s gritty and real in a way London hasn’t been since Dickens wrote about small orphans. ”

She waved her turquoise-painted nails at me through the screen, an impish smirk on her lips. “Your stories are filled with bold heroines who seize life by the freakin’ balls and don’t let go. We both need to live more like them!”

Her words resonated with me, circling in my head as I fiddled nervously with my laptop’s edge. “And what? Just show up uninvited at Brady’s place?”

Her laughter filled my speakers—a sound so infectious it managed to coax a reluctant smile onto my face.

“Well, he should have extended an invitation by now! You’ve been chatting for months! And besides,” she added slyly, “since when do you need an invite to write your own story?”

A sigh slipped past me, but I could feel Lila’s suggestion igniting something inside me—a rush of adrenaline that was both terrifying and tantalizing.

“Alright,” I conceded after a moment of contemplation and gulping down my last splash of red wine. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll think about it.”

We both knew that meant I was already mentally packing my bags.

When Margot vid called the following day, I mentioned Brady, our online relationship, and my conversation with Lila. Her eyes lit up like I’d just handed her an instant bestseller.

“A Scottish historian? Who writes you sonnets? Amelia, this is gold! Your friend Lila’s right. Go there. Meet him! Use him. Write about it.”

I’d laughed it off initially. “I can’t just fly to the Scottish Highlands because I’m blocked.”

“Why not? You’ve written four books about women who take chances. Maybe it’s time you take one.”

Ouch. But Lila and Margot hadn’t been wrong. My heroines were always braver than me—bold women who recognized red flags and walked away from toxic relationships, who chased their dreams across continents, who found true love because they were brave enough to believe in it.

In the meantime, I’d been marooned in my tiny Toronto apartment for a couple of years, engaged in a romance with my laptop and an ongoing parade of food delivery men passing me tepid Pad Thai before making a swift exit.

Brady seemed like the perfect solution. Our relationship had started innocently enough: first, his polite message on the dating app LoveLeap.com, then witty banter about Scottish folklore (research into my ancestry and a book idea I’d ultimately abandoned), and video calls that stretched into the early hours.

I’d fallen for his intelligence, how he quoted obscure poetry, and how every syllable sounded like a promise.

I’d fallen for a lie.

I find momentary shelter under the burgundy awning of a closed café, breathing in the lingering scent of coffee and pastries while trying to formulate a plan. My phone, which I fish from my soaked purse, shows 13% battery and approximately seventeen notifications from Margot.

Perfect.

The last message just reads:

Did you do it? Did you meet him? I’m dying here.

My thumb hovers over the screen. What would I even say?

Met him. Also met his wife. And I’m not a home wrecker.

I shake my head, typing nothing in the end and shoving my phone into the depths of my purse. Truth is, I jetted across the Atlantic for two things: Brady and my next bestseller.

I thought that meeting him would be like turning a key in some rusty old lock inside me—releasing all these pent-up emotions and inspiration that had been gathering dust since my parents’ last catastrophic showdown at my cousin’s wedding.

Nothing entirely extinguishes your faith in fairy tale endings like seeing your divorced parents lobbing duck confit vol-au-vent at each other a quarter century after their divorce.

I glance down at the suitcase resting smugly at my feet—a snarky reminder of where spontaneity has landed me.

In an act that would make even seasoned online daters cringe, I browsed many Inverness hotels but never made any reservations. In the romantic ‘Surprise!’ scenario I’d crafted in my imagination, Brady and I would share a bed tonight.

But it wasn’t just lust-fueled recklessness. No, I let myself believe again. I let myself fall under love’s mesmerizing spell, thinking it might be different this time. That Brady was worth throwing caution out the window for. That love was still something worth pursuing despite its past betrayals.

With a heavy sigh, I pull up the travel app on my phone only to wince at the results—it seems late May isn’t exactly off-peak tourist season in Inverness. All the budget-friendly options are fully booked, and what’s left would decimate my emergency credit card.

My phone battery is on life support, there are zero taxis nearby, and I need to find a way to the airport.

The rain pours down from the awning above me, creating a watery barrier between me and the rest of the world.

My fingers are numb with cold, but there’s an uncomfortable heat in my chest—humiliation slowly morphing into anger.

No.

No way!

This isn’t going to be my story’s ending. I didn’t fly four thousand miles just to let a married man turn me into a sopping mess on a Scottish sidewalk.

Plan of action:

1: March to the bus station.

2: Charge phone.

3: Rebook flight home.

If I can manage all that, maybe I can spin this disaster into writing gold because, let’s face it—my career is hanging by a thread.

Flashes of my parents’ disastrous marriage flicker through my mind. Mom with her endless stream of boy-toy boyfriends. Dad with his perpetual disappointment. Neither could stay put long enough to build anything lasting.

I was five when they tossed me headfirst into their marital whirlpool. That’s when I learned love could be as fleeting as cherry blossoms in spring and as destructive as a tornado on steroids.

In those moments of darkness and chaos, I’d rescue my cherished toy sailboat from its perch on my dresser and let it sail across the sea of my sky-blue comforter in an imagined escape from their domestic hurricanes.

I’d picture myself aboard that tiny ship, sailing towards tranquility far removed from the tempestuous storms at home, the salty breeze filling my lungs with hope and freedom.

Each imaginary wave kissing the hull was an assurance—a sanctuary where love couldn’t shatter or distort itself into something cruel and unrecognizable.

Maybe one day, I thought, I’d find a real-life first mate to help me navigate these stormy waters. But until then, it was just me and my tiny sailboat against the world.

I roll my shoulders back, straighten up, and grip my suitcase handle with newfound determination.

“Get a grip,” I tell myself. “You’ve written heroines out of stickier situations than this.”

Of course, those heroines were fictional, their fate controlled by the tap-tap-tap of my keyboard.

Real life is messier.

Real life involves bad hair days, waterlogged heels, broken hearts, and the knowledge that people will weave elaborate lies about the drenched people who surprised them on their doorsteps with the same precision they used to trick you online.

Real life doesn’t come with time machines that whisk you away when everything goes sideways—though God knows it should.

With renewed purpose, I step back into the rain towards the bus station—a few streets over, according to my map app.

My suitcase trails behind me in a steady rhythm as determination replaces despair. Somewhere inside this disaster lies the story I need to tell—I just have to survive long enough to write it.