Page 23 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

When we finally arrive at the cobbler’s booth, William MacTavish greets us with a toothless smile.

“Good morning to ye! Will ye be flaunting these fine boots I crafted then?” he asks, scrutinizing our footwear again with an artisan’s keen eye.

“That was the deal,” Cal confirms, giving him a friendly pat.

“Let’s hope they’re more durable than my last relationship,” I whisper, earning an amused snort from Cal.

The morning is spent modeling boots—from rugged work shoes to delicate slippers fit for Highland royalty. As we strut around like peacocks—me in breeches and Cal in his kilt—we draw curious glances from villagers. It feels oddly familiar—like being a living mannequin after years in retail.

“Look at ye, the bonnie pair,” Fiona teases, her laughter blending with the lively fair sounds. “Ye could charm the silver right off a nobleman.”

“Or at least charm some sense into one,” I say, triggering a chorus of chuckles from bystanders.

As the day unfolds, I’m slowly sinking into the rhythm of this bygone era.

Cal’s wit is my anchor, keeping me grounded in our current reality—however twisted it may be—as we navigate this alien landscape.

There are moments when our laughter merges, forming a symphony that feels as timeless as the world around us.

“Check him out,” I say, pointing at a man limping in mismatched boots, one sole flapping like a gossiping older woman. “Those shoes could tell quite a story.”

“Probably an epic tale of survival,” Cal chimes in with a grin. “Or maybe a tragicomedy.”

“Your turn.” I nudge him and gesture toward a woman in sturdy leather boots. “What’s her deal?”

“Hmm...” He pretends to ponder heavily. “A gal who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty but can cut loose and dance like nobody’s watchin’ when the moon is high.”

“That sounds about right,” I answer, feeling warmth spread through my whole body at his words. It’s like we’re engaged in a verbal tango, each exchange drawing us closer together .

As the fair winds down and long shadows drape over the Highlands, bathing them in golden light, Cal and I retreat to what has become ‘our’ cozy knoll overlooking the village. He sits beside me so close that our hands are almost touching on the cool grass.

“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” I say quietly, awestruck by the sprawling vista before us.

“Never seen anything like it,” he replies without taking his eyes off me.

I look at him, vulnerability flitting across his face. I can almost hear his unspoken confession: he also feels the weight of our predicament.

“Thank you,” I whisper, holding his gaze.

“For being here; for making me laugh when all I wanted to do was freak out.”

“Anytime, and in any time,” he vows, his thumb brushing against mine.

The Scottish Highlands are cloaked in the soft glow of dusk as we stumble back into MacDowells’ Tavern, our feet protesting from the day’s adventures but our spirits soaring.

Fi plies us with her robust homemade bread and stew, and it’s not long before we’re nursing glasses of whisky, the tavern pulsating with Fergus’ lively fiddle tunes. Before I can even protest, Cal is pulling me into the throng of dancers .

“Oh no, no, Cal, I’m going to stomp on everyone!” I yelp, clinging onto him for dear life as we plunge into a raucous reel.

His laughter resonates through me as we spin wildly, my world shrinking to a blur of tartan and the comforting pressure of his hand on my waist.

“Trust yerself,” he says gently, leading me through the steps like we’ve danced together in another lifetime

As the music quickens, Cal and I lose ourselves in its rhythm.

The traditional Scottish dance steps fade away, replaced by a haphazard jumble of modern shenanigans.

My attempt at breakdancing elicits a burst of laughter from him that lights up his whole face.

In response, he tries his hand at a ’60s twist, which gets me giggling uncontrollably.

Our spontaneous dance-off spirals through time. Cal pulls off a ’70s disco spin, only to be one-upped by my ’80s moonwalk.

He retaliates with a ’90s Macarena, and our absurdity escalates as we bring in elements from each subsequent decade until we’re madly flailing about with TikTok moves from the 2020s.

Our foreheads are covered in sweat, our faces flushed from laughter and exertion. Despite being surrounded by Highlanders, we’re alone in our own little world.

It takes Fergus stopping mid-tune for us to realize that we’ve become the evening’s entertainment. The crowd encircles us, their faces a mix of amusement and utter confusion.

Caught in the spotlight, Cal and I freeze like deer in headlights, our private moment suddenly very public. I glance at him, noticing he looks just as stunned as me.

With a sheepish grin, he clears his throat. “Well… uh… we thought we’d bring a little bit of... home to ye all,” he stammers out, pulling me closer.

“Is that how you dance where you come from?” Fergus arches an eyebrow at us.

“Um, I-I… had an itch,” I manage to stutter out, still catching my breath.

Cal wraps his arm around me tighter. “And Mills here is just a tad exhausted from all this... fresh air.”

The room erupts into chuckles. The villagers seem to accept our ridiculous excuse, and they relax into smiles.

“Yeah, so tired,” I chime in, forcing down my giggles with a faux yawn.

“Shall we make our escape now, Cal?” I ask him quietly, indicating towards the exit with my eyes.

As we retreat, with the tavern’s patrons still wearing bemused expressions, Alistair calls after us.

“Ye’ll teach me all those steps in the morrow, will ye?”

Cal and I exchange a glance before bursting into laughter.

Gossip and disapproving whispers chase us as we escape to the dim sanctuary of the attic bedroom above the tavern.

The single bed taunts us once again with its less-than-adequate size, but neither of us brings up our sleeping arrangement dilemma.

This morning, Fiona had given us a puzzled look when she noticed our clothes were still rumpled from sleeping.

She blinked at me, eyebrows furrowed. “Why aren’t ye sleeping in yer undergarments like any other married folk?”

I’d had to think on my feet. “Oh, I suppose I’m a bit of a princess, Fi. I’ve come to prefer the comfort of a long nightgown, that’s all.”

Touched by my honesty, Fiona had generously spent the day sewing us matching sleepwear from her cherished hoard of MacDowell tartan, saved for some “momentous occasion.”

So tonight, Cal and I are in opposite corners of our tiny bedroom, awkwardly turning away from each other to change into our fresh, bright Highland garb.

When we finally dare to turn and face each other again, the sight is too much for Cal.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he gasps between fits of amusement. “Jings, Crivvens, Help ma boab! Mills. We look absurd. Like... like... ”

“Jings, Crivvens…?” I ask, quirking a brow at him.

“It means for Feckssakes,” he’s doubled over now, “we look like…”

“Like what?” I ask, struggling to keep my giggles at bay.

“Like bloody Christmas baubles!” His laughter ricochets off the walls like an infectious tune. “We’re practically beggin’ to be hung on a Christmas tree!” The ridiculousness sends us into hysterics, our shared amusement ringing through the room.

Once we’ve caught our breath, we settle on the narrow bed—a pair of songbirds cautious about sharing a branch—and ease into a comfortable silence. We’re so close I can practically hear his heartbeat. When he finally breaks our silence, his voice is soft and thoughtful.

“Mills,” he starts, a ripple of anticipation skittering down my spine, “Have ye ever thought about why we’re here? Like what the universe wants us to learn from all this?”

I pivot towards him, the scant light casting intriguing shadows across his beautiful face.

“I wonder about that constantly,” I admit in a whisper. “Are we supposed to alter something? Or are we just bystanders in this historical spectacle?”

I shrug, feeling an unexpected wave of vulnerability wash over me. “Maybe it’s about unearthing our true selves when modern-day distractions aren’t around.”

“Or perhaps it’s about finding someone who sees ye for who ye are,” Cal suggests, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse race.

“Someone who doesn’t require a shoe theory to decipher people?” I quip weakly, hoping to sidestep the emotional ledge we seem to be teetering on.

“Precisely,” he says, lips curling into a soft smile. He leans closer, his voice soft and earnest. “Ye’ve got your Shoe Theory all worked out, Mills. But maybe it’s been yer safety net all along.”

He pauses for a moment. “Maybe ye hadn’t met anyone worth ditchin’ the theory for ’til now.”

My breath hitches as warmth radiates from his gaze, melting my defenses.

“Sometimes the right person makes all those theories feel... redundant,” he adds.

I let out a shallow breath. “Perhaps I should have ditched the theory ages ago,” I murmur, the weight of our words hanging between us.

Cal responds with a low chuckle, a sound so rich it makes the tiny hairs on my arms rise. “I don’t know. I find yer theories—and yer mind—utterly enchanting.”

My whole body tingles. I wriggle on our narrow bed, the rough fabric of the sheets scratching against my skin. Every shift brings me closer to Cal; just a whisper of space separates us. The tension is thick and intoxicating, like peat smoke wafting from nearby cottages.

“Speaking of predictions,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood with humor. “We should probably catch some Zs. Tomorrow promises to be quite a day, what with Alistair’s dance lessons and all.”

A soft smile plays on my lips as I anticipate the hilarity that’s bound to come from that experience.

Cal responds with a simple “Right” and carefully settles himself onto the bed, his back facing me. The old bed creaks loudly under our combined weight. The heat emanating from his body seeps into mine as we lay side by side.

The situation is laughable—a bed too small, a time too strange. But there’s an undeniable solace in his closeness. I curl towards the edge of the bed, my back to him, our bodies forming a question mark against the sheets.

“Goodnight,” I murmur into the void.

“Night,” comes his reply, laced with something unidentifiable.

The darkness swallows us whole, but sleep eludes me.

All of a sudden, it hits me: my Shoe Theory has been nothing more than an elaborate shield, a defense mechanism to keep certain men at arm’s length. That shield has crumbled into dust here in this surreal and timeless place, leaving me exposed .

Returning to Canada without Cal—without hearing his endearing accent whisper ‘ Teine ’ na broinn ’—is suddenly more terrifying than any Highland war.

Another epiphany strikes: Cal and I would never have crossed paths if I’d stubbornly adhered to my Shoe Theory.

A man who prefers bare feet by day and boat shoes by night?

He wouldn’t have stood a chance with me back home, where status updates and designer labels rule the roost. Yet here he is, potentially the love of my life—a love I could have missed because of my skewed preconceptions.

I stare at the beams on our ceiling, my entire body buzzing. Every breath I draw seems to fuse us closer together, like embers in a fire slowly brought to life by the wind. But fear—that cruel and unyielding jailer—keeps me glued to my spot on the bed.

“Amelia,” Callum’s voice cuts through the silence of the night, soft as a lover’s touch yet potent as a spell. I hold my breath, every cell in my body poised on the edge of anticipation.

“Ye make history bearable.”

His words wash over me like waves lapping at the shore of a secluded beach, warming me from within.

I let my eyes flutter shut, cherishing this moment—his voice in the darkness, his presence beside me. A faint smile tugs at my lips, involuntary, but welcome.

Perhaps this Loch Ness Portal and its moonlit mysteries have guided me towards something—or rather someone—worth braving this tumultuous journey for. Someone worth surrendering my fears to and risking another heartbreak for.

Maybe it’s not just about surviving history anymore. Maybe it’s about making history... with him.