Page 21 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Twenty

“Och, yes,” Cal plays along, slinging an arm around me a little too tightly. “‘Tis madly in love we are.”

“Head over heels, completely, utterly smitten,” I throw out there, snuggling into him with a fake giggle. Heat rushes to my face, and I silently thank the dim lighting for its discretion.

“Can’t imagine myself with anyone else,” Callum chimes in, his voice quivering like he’s holding back laughter. But then, his eyes meet mine, and there’s this brief flicker of authenticity.

“Me neither,” I confess in barely a whisper, so faint that I’m not sure he catches it. I quickly bury my face in his chest, feigning a swoon. If he senses my heart racing like a runaway horse, he keeps it to himself .

“How long have ye been handfasted?” Alistair presses.

“Ah, too mesmerized by her green eyes to recall,” Cal fires back promptly, muttering something about us being fresh off the honeymoon phase.

Alistair offers a small nod. He guides us past the guest rooms on the second floor to a small attic room shadowed in darkness. It features a short, low-to-the-ground bed.

The realization strikes us simultaneously—one bed.

One. Single. Narrow and definitely not king-sized bed for both of us.

As I follow Cal inside, an uncomfortable laugh slips out of me. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” My attempt at humor falls completely flat when my voice wobbles.

“Sleep well,” Alistair responds with a wink.

The bedroom door closes behind him with an ominous click that feels oddly similar to a starter pistol triggering some weird race neither Cal nor I signed up for.

He looks at me from across the room, lingering on me longer than necessary. Then he shrugs nonchalantly and flashes me an uneven grin that screams charm but lacks sincerity.

“No worries, Mills,” he says like we’re talking about tomorrow’s forecast and not the elephant in the room. “I’ve slept on a sailboat many times.”

His courage is commendable but falls flat when we both take our surroundings seriously.

It’s a cozy room with an angled roof, rough stone walls, one round window, and a table decorated with candles, oil lamps, dried heather, and lavender.

It’s so minuscule that there’s barely enough space for one person to stretch out without getting uncomfortably chummy with the vintage furniture.

“So, we’re bunking together,” he concedes, a teasing half-smirk playing on his lips that sends my pulse skyrocketing and my stomach somersaulting. He’s coaxing rather than commanding, more of a playful nudge than a push.

“Splitting the bed,” I manage to squeak out, my words punctuated with a nervous giggle as I trace an invisible boundary down the center of the tiny straw-filled mattress. “And keep it PG-13.”

Cal lifts his hands in surrender, an easy grin on his lips.

“Scout’s honor,” he teases, his tone light yet laced with an undercurrent of frustration.

A livewire crackles between us as we roll back the patchwork quilt and stake our claims on our respective territories. Every shift of his muscle, every breath he takes feels amplified, wrapping around me like an electric blanket that I can’t shrug off.

His athletic figure brushes against my backside, sending waves of warmth through me and stirring up feelings that threaten to bulldoze through my self-restraint .

Well, I can forget about getting a wink of sleep tonight. My mind races as I try to ignore how solid he feels against me and how he’s lying oh-so-freaking close. For the love of not jumping Cal’s beautiful bones right here and now, I need a distraction!

I start chanting in my head:

‘I don’t need this. Too complicated. Way too complicated! Don’t need this.’

But the words barely quell the scorching desire between my thighs. Maybe it’s nothing. Perhaps I’m the only one feeling it?

Yet, even as I downplay it, Cal’s heat is practically tangible. Something is sizzling—no, vibrating—in the space between us. He rolls onto his back at the same time as me, and our eyes lock. I glimpse something in his gaze—a flicker of frustration mirroring my own.

I draw in a shaky breath, trying to regain some control. But with our faces so close, it’s impossible to ignore the fire burning between us.

His exhale is slow. Deliberate.

“Comfortable?” he breaks the silence. I can practically hear his heart thumping.

I swallow and pull in a breath. “Extremely,” I reply, sarcasm dripping from every syllable as I exhale and roll away, desperate to put some distance between us. “Nothing quite like sleeping in a corset for ultimate relaxation.”

“Ah, come now,” he chuckles softly. “I’ve heard you ladies love your Shapewear. ”

Despite myself, I smile into the darkness enveloping us.

“Goodnight, Teine ’na broinn ,” he whispers, so close I can feel his warm breath on my neck.

“Night,” I manage to whisper back, forcing my traitorous body to ignore the thrill of sleeping next to a man who’s quickly becoming more than just an accidental travel buddy.

The sun of 1645 crashes into our first morning with all the subtlety of a cannonball.

I’m jerked out of sleep by the shutters smacking the window in the wind, my pulse hammering as if I’ve just sprinted down Toronto’s Yonge Street in five-inch heels.

Beside me, Cal stirs, his arm flopping over onto my side of the bed.

“Is it morning already?” he grumbles, scrubbing at his eyes with his fist.

“Looks like,” I reply, nudging his arm back to its rightful territory. “And FYI, there’s no such thing as a snooze button in the seventeenth century.”

His chuckle rumbles through the quiet room and he props himself up on one elbow to squint at me under heavy eyelids. “I miss coffee,” he mutters.

“Yeah? Try missing toilets,” I joke, casting a disdainful glance toward the lurking menace that is our chamber pot beneath the bed .

Late last night, with Cal presumably lost in dreamland, I ninja-stepped with the pot to a corner of our room. It was like failing at charades, trying to hover over it without creating a sound or toppling over. Next time, I’ll risk the great outdoors instead.

But then again… wildcats and snakes and ticks… oh my.

We tackle morning hygiene with equal parts MacGyver-like resourcefulness and sheer dogged determination. Cal magics up a makeshift washbasin from a bowl, and pitcher Fiona left for us while I wage war on a bar of soap that seems hell-bent on remaining suds-free.

“Do you ever think we take hot showers for granted?” I muse aloud, splashing lukewarm water over my face.

“Every damn moment since we landed here,” he replies, toweling off his face with what feels more like sandpaper than linen.

Breakfast downstairs morphs into another episode of Survivor: 17th Century Edition. The sight of porridge is comforting until grappling with it using a wooden spoon feels akin to steering a yacht through a hurricane with dental floss.

“Wonder where they stash their microwave in this place?” My quip hangs in the air, a feeble attempt to mask my craving for the comforts of the 21st century.

“Probably next to their Nespresso machine,” Cal shoots back, his wink adding an extra sparkle to my morning.

Our playful exchange is cut short by a parade of kilt-clad men strutting in, their footwear a curious blend of rugged functionality and vintage charm. My gaze zeroes in on one particularly beefy guy whose boots look like they’ve survived more wars than he has.

“Time to test my Shoe Theory,” I murmur.

“Shoe Theory?”

So, I’ve got this theory,” I start quietly, my spoon twirling in the air before it plops back into my tea.

“It’s all about shoes. They’re like little personality billboards for the people wearing them.

” I lean back, folding my arms over my chest and fixating on Cal’s reaction.

His sandy eyebrows lift in intrigue as he leans forward on his elbows, a shimmer lighting up his eyes.

“Sounds riveting,” he teases with that Scottish drawl that makes me smile despite myself. “Do go on.”

“Well,” I press on, encouraged by his interest, “it’s not just speculation. It’s been tested and proven. Every guy I’ve dated has perfectly mirrored their shoe choice.” A surge of bitterness washes over me as I spit out the name that still stings. “Including that two-timing asswipe, Brady Reeves.”

Cal nearly spits out his tea at my word choice but manages to let out a brief chuckle before it fades. His eyes soften as he catches my gaze.

“My Shoe Theory may have led me down some jagged paths,” I admit with a shrug. “But it’s also been an X-ray into people’s souls—proving you can judge a book by its cover... or, in this case, a man by his shoes.”

“And what exactly does yer theory suggest about him?” Cal asks, raising an eyebrow with a hint of skepticism.

Despite his doubt, he humors me with a gentle smile, leaning in to hear my response. His kindness and warmth always make me feel supported, even when I’m off on a tangent.

“Those worn-out boots? He’s clearly a warrior poet—a hopeless romantic at heart,” I deduce.

“Mills, he hammers metal for a living, and the last poem he likely penned was an ode to iron and fire.”

“Really?” My frown deepens. “Well, maybe he’s got hidden depths.”

“Keep dreaming,” he quips with a wink.

As we continue our meal, I assign shoe-inspired character profiles to everyone who passes us by—much to Cal’s amusement.

“So,” he asks, “the guy with mismatched boots is an undiscovered Picasso?”

“Obviously,” I reply, smirking. “And don’t disregard that young boy with the polished boots—he’s bound for some kind of scholarship. ”

“Or he’s just a budding narcissist.”

“Come on, Cal. Don’t ruin my fun. Shoes are storytelling devices, even here.”

“Stories that seem to change with every incorrect guess,” he chuckles.

“That’s part of the thrill, isn’t it?”

“A thrill in misinterpretation, ye mean.” He grins at me as he playfully nudges my shoulder.

“You think so, huh? So tell me then, sailor,” I challenge him. “What do your shoes say about you?”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze locking onto mine.

“Simple: I’m a man who’s seen many places and faces... searching for something—or someone—worth staying for.”

Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outwards like a ripple on a quiet pond. I jerk my gaze away, feigning fascination with the congealed porridge before me. His words hang heavy between us, as potent and electrifying as the Highland mist.

I’m teetering dangerously close to falling off the precipice of logic into a tangled mess that no shoe theory could untangle.

When I’m about to master the art of shoveling porridge into my mouth without spilling it all over myself, Fiona breezes over, eyes bright.

“Where’d ye hail from, Amelia? Your speech is all sorts of peculiar.”

“Canada,” The word slips out before I can shut my mouth. A wave of dread washes over me as I realize my blunder: Canada isn’t even on the map for another two centuries.

“Can...ada?” Fiona rolls the word around her tongue like it’s a foreign ingredient she’s never cooked with.

Cal gives me a swift kick under the table, his silent cue for me to tone down my 21st-century lingo.

“Far north,” he interjects smoothly, “Very cold. Lots of snow.”

“Ah,” Fiona nods sagely, and I can’t help but suspect she’s picturing a winter wonderland more akin to Narnia than Ontario.

“Our friend Millie here is quite the raconteur,” Cal continues, shooting me a look that screams: play along, or we’re screwed.

“Indeed,” I echo, playing my part. “Stories so vivid you’d swear you were living them. Like... magic.” I clasp my hands together and hope that the universal language of awe translates.

“Magic…” Fiona echoes back. “We could use a bit o’ that around here.”

“Speaking of magic,” I say. “Do you have anything to help with chilblains?” I wiggle my sore toes inside my boots.

Chilblains? Cal mouths at me across the table, clearly puzzled.

“Red, inflamed toes?” I explain. “Never mind. I’ll just Google it later—uh, I mean, go ask the local healer about it.”

Fiona looks utterly confused at this point. “Google?”

Fuckity! I am one big fat fail at fitting in. I pull my lips between my teeth to stop myself from saying anything else. Thankfully, Cal jumps in again before I dig deeper into this hole.

“An old Gaelic term,” he explains easily, almost making me believe him. “Means to seek wisdom.”

“Ah. Well, if you’re seeking a healer’s relief, my sister Elspeth might have something for yer feet,” Fiona offers after processing this new information.

“Thank you,” I tell her as she leaves us. When she’s out of the room, I shoot Cal a look of thanks.

He leans in closer and grins at me, clearly amused by our predicament.

“Anytime, Mills,” he whispers. “Perhaps ye could avoid the 21st-century lingo from now on, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” I scrunch my nose and wince at myself internally, diving back into my porridge with a newfound determination. Half a second later, I’ve come up with a witty comeback.

“So it’s adios to smartphones, farewell to avocado toast, and au revoir to skinny jeans.”

“That’s cute,” he chuckles, his expression relaxing. “Now, tuck in. We’ve got a daunting day of not messing up history ahead of us.”