Page 32 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Thirty
Jolted awake, I’m unceremoniously ripped from the comforting arms of slumber. Waking up at Rosewood Cottage has evolved into an Olympic sport, complete with twists and turns to avoid a head-on collision with low-hanging beams. But this morning feels different.
After locking horns with wild Scotsmen and taking a dip in a magical loch, I feel like a new woman—one who can remember to duck under an attic bedroom ceiling.
“Score one for Mills,” I whisper to the barely lit room, my lips curling into a smirk as I stare at the ceiling.
The familiar scent of sea salt intertwined with aged timber fills my nose.
I take another moment to appreciate the cottage’s quaint charm—its blue floral wallpaper, the seashells, and the sand-dollar collection displayed on floating shelves.
A solitary ray of afternoon sunlight sneaks through lace curtains, casting playful shadows over my favorite pair of beat-up sneakers at the foot of the bed.
Reality seeps back in slowly but surely, cold and unwelcome like water invading a leaky boot.
A pang of longing hits me hard—for tartan kilts and morning porridge, for Cal and his ancestors’ Scottish accents echoing off ancient stone walls.
Yet here I am, nestled in the last cottage on Moray Firth’s tranquil cove, all by myself.
Swinging my legs out from under the covers, I stand up and catch sight of my reflection in an antique mirror.
“Holy moly,” I mutter under my breath as I squint at the sleep-deprived monster staring back at me. “I look like I’ve been through four centuries.”
My usually vibrant green-gold eyes look like they’ve gone ten rounds with Father Time himself.
“Get a grip, Mills,” I tell my reflection. “You’ve survived the shark-infested waters of online dating, weathered your parents’ marital hurricane, and time-traveled to and from 1645 without GPS. You can totally handle a bit of post-time travel jet lag.”
My eyes flick to the clock on my bedside table. 3:15 pm? I’ve slept like a log—or rather, like a Scotsman after a victorious battle and a hefty swig of whisky. But if it’s late afternoon already, why hasn’t Cal shown up yet ?
I shuffle towards the window to look out at the Firth, tripping over last night’s discarded breeches. The sunlight outside promises to be the ultimate pick-me-up. I’m stronger now; Cal’s love and a dash of adventure have seen to that. A little romantic uncertainty isn’t going to break me.
“Sunshine is the answer,” I proclaim to the sea shore, my hand splayed against the cool window glass. It’s either this or surrender to the lure of bed, and Amelia Sutherland doesn’t wave her white flag so quickly.
“Even if Cal has become as elusive as Nessie,” I mutter, half-hoping the legendary loch magic might sprinkle some clarity my way—or at least prevent me from nose-diving into my coffee.
Resting my forehead against the windowpane, I let the sun’s warmth seep into me, its rays promising a salve for my chaotic thoughts.
Outside, it’s like someone hit pause on life—only the trees sway rhythmically in sync with the breeze, seemingly performing for the waves that brush against the shoreline with each rhythmic lap.
“Maybe tree-whispering should be my next career move,” I muse aloud, “Seems less heart-wrenching than trying to understand men.”
My gaze follows a pair of robins darting around in the greenery.
The tranquility of it all makes it hard to believe anything could be wrong.
But then again, it’s equally challenging picturing Cal not bursting through that door any second with his trademark lopsided grin and a ‘wee story’ about his latest highland cow friend.
A pang shoots through my chest at the thought. His presence has become as predictable as a sunrise, woven into every part of my day-to-day life. Yet today? Today feels hollow without him.
“Where are you hiding, Cal?” I whisper to myself before quickly erasing the heart I drew on the foggy glass.
“Pull yourself together,” I think, tugging on a t-shirt and my go-to dark jeans. “You’ve navigated rougher waters than an MIA boyfriend... Wait, he is still my boyfriend, right?”
Of course, he is. Any other thought is ludicrous, considering our unbelievable shared adventures. But despite trying to reassure myself and stealing glances at my silent phone every five minutes, Cal’s silence feels like a fog rolling in from Loch Ness—chilling and impenetrable.
“He could’ve at least texted. Or sent a carrier pigeon,” I grumble while tapping the kitchen window.
My attempt at humor dwindles with each passing moment.
The lack of scones or flowers is understandable; he can only spoil me for so long, but his absence?
That’s a puzzle that even my caffeine-starved brain can’t crack.
I’ve packed my laptop, purse, and clothes in my suitcase. I need to be at the airport in five short hours from now, but Cal and I have so much to discuss first, and he hasn’t answered one text. I never thought I’d be leaving like this!
My heart runs a marathon in my chest as I pace around the cottage, each loop making the place feel smaller.
“Maybe he’s finally figured out that dating a girl who uses humor and sarcasm as her shield isn’t so much charming as it is.
.. an emotional minefield?” I cringe at my own words, self-deprecation tiptoeing dangerously close to self-pity.
I make a beeline for the front door mat and scoop up my boots.
“Enough moping.” I sigh, sliding them onto my feet and striding back down the hall to gather my stuff for today’s adventure. Each click-clack of my bootheels against the cottage floor echoes like a heartbeat, matching my resolve.
I shrug into my jean jacket, its familiar weight settling over me like armor. One last look at myself in the hallway mirror reveals fear lurking behind my eyes, but also strength.
“Seize the day,” I whisper, “Go get your love story.”
With that mantra in my mind, I close the cottage door, leave the key under the potted plant as instructed, and step onto the lane that borders the sea.
Trudging along Rosewood Lane with my suitcase wheels squealing behind me, I’m having horrible flashbacks to my first day in Inverness, complete with rain drizzle and the dark cloud of worry hanging over me.
“Cal?” I call out, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of his tousled hair or maybe even just a hint of sunlight bouncing off his broad shoulders. But all I get is silence and the echo of my footsteps bouncing back at me, a cruel reminder that Cal is nowhere in sight.
And then there it is—where Number Three Rosewood Lane should be —but instead of Cal’s charmingly rustic cottage standing proudly as an ode to Scottish heritage, there’s this jarring modern beast made of glass and steel. A bright “Learn to Sail” sign flaps in the breeze like a victory flag.
“Wait, what? Modern architecture here?” I scoff into the wind, shaking my head in disbelief. “What’s next? A Starbucks in his parents’ stables?”
The thrum of bodies around this unfamiliar structure is a sensory assault.
Their garish sailing attire clashes with the subdued hues of heather and gorse blanketing the landscape.
It’s like someone’s upended a pack of neon markers onto one of those brooding Scottish postcards I’d mailed to Lila when I first got here.
“Excuse me,” I pipe up, snagging the elbow of a woman whose outfit screams maritime savvy. “I’m trying to find Cal MacDowell. He’s the owner here, isn’t he?”
She swivels towards me, her face shifting into an expression that’s half confusion, half annoyance. “MacDowell? Are ye pullin’ my leg?” Her eyes widen as they dart from my disheveled state to where Cal’s cottage used to stand behind me.
“No joke,” I reply, feeling my arch-support problem and the ridiculousness of this situation bear down on me. “He has... or had... a cottage right here.”
“Sweetheart,” she drawls, gracing me with a condescending smile that makes me itch for a gangplank to walk off. “The only thing Cal MacDowell ever constructed here were tall tales and fish stories.”
With an offhand pat on my shoulder, she flits away, leaving me standing in the shadow of bafflement with thoughts spinning faster than a Ceilidh dance-off.
Something doesn’t add up here, and it isn’t just this architectural oddity in front of me.
My feet freeze on the cobblestone path, my mind a tornado of confusion.
Seriously, what the hell is happening here?
Did I smack my noggin once again on my cottage’s angled ceiling?
Or... could it be something entirely different and infinitely more bizarre?
Does it have to do with the Loch Ness Portal?
Have I somehow stumbled into an alternate reality courtesy of some magical Scottish legend?
“Fantastic,” I mutter, catching my disheveled reflection in a passing car’s window. “Not only am I potentially back on the market again, but I’ve also managed to mess up the space-time continuum. Classic Mills—can’t even time travel without causing a cosmic kerfuffle!”
But then, a chilling thought strikes me: If Rosewood Cottage has a new name, and Cal’s cottage has vanished… what else might have changed?
A sudden pang of worry gnaws at my insides. I hope he’s alright, and the time shift has only changed this street.
As each second slips away, the tangle of bewilderment only grows tighter. I need clarity. And there’s one place left where I might find it.
“Don’t let me down now, Tipsy Trow,” I whisper under my breath as I drag myself and my suitcase to Cal’s brother’s pub. It’s a cherished gathering spot for locals; surely it would remain untouched by time?