Page 35 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Thirty-Three
The rain has finally given us a break, but its oppressive presence lingers, seeping into my bones like some Highland ghost. Shoulders hunched against the cold, I shuffle off the bus and head toward the taxi stand.
Were the last few weeks with Cal even real? Logic screams no, but my heart's not buying it. I can still feel the warmth of his rough hands, the intensity in those captivating eyes, and the taste of whisky and want on his lips.
God, I've fallen head over heels like a total nincompoop.
A car horn snaps me out of my self-pity party. I whirl around to see a black taxi approaching the curb beside me. The window rolls down, revealing a familiar face framed by a beard .
“In need of a ride, miss?” Hamish asks with a beaming smile. “Ye seem like you could do with one.”
As I look into his warm gaze, a strange mix of laughter and tears escapes me—part emotional wreckage, part relief.
“Hamish! You’re exactly what I needed right now!” I shout, realizing he has no clue who I am, but not caring in this beautiful private reunion in my mind.
“Always at yer service, ferrying visitors and locals alike,” he says with a wink. “Climb in. This old cabbie’s got an ear if ye need it.”
I toss my suitcase in his trunk, but as I start to slide into the back seat, I spot two more familiar faces grinning at me.
“Moira! Mac!” My heart lifts at the sight of my friends from the Tipsy Trow, easing some of the tension in my shoulders.
“What brings you to town?”
They share a look before turning back to me, bemusement dancing in their eyes.
“Right. You don’t know me because we met at the Trow, which is not currently... the Trow!” I hiccup on a sob that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Mac just shrugs while Moira reaches out and gives my hand a comforting squeeze.
“Dinnae sweat it, love,” she soothes me. “We’re pals now, yeah?” Her warmth is a constant, even in this alternate reality. It’s like a comforting cup of hot cocoa on a snowy day—always there when you need it.
I sigh as I take in the backseat of Hamish’s cab, already bursting at the seams with passengers. “Your taxi looks like it’s about to pop,” I groan, mentally running through the nightmare that is public transportation.
Hamish waves away my worries. “No bother at all.” He gives me a grin that could win over the grumpiest of Scots, then turns to Mac and Moira, “Fancy taking the scenic route?”
They bob their heads eagerly and Moira adds her two cents, “Aye, it’s a bonny day for a jaunt through the countryside.”
“And there ye have it!” Hamish pats the passenger seat next to him. I slump into the seat, shoulders easing, but my heart still missing Cal.
“So,” Hamish kicks off once we hit the road again, “where are we headed? And why do ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost?”
I stall for time, unsure of where to start or even where I should go. I’ve got this flight looming over me that I’m dreading more than a root canal, and home feels less like home now—alternate universe or not. My world is spinning.
But then Moira pipes up from behind us. “Come on love, spill it,” her voice floats from behind, tender and sympathetic, and my walls crumble .
I let them in—I open my heart and spill it all to them—every wild detail.
How I stumbled into Cal's life by trying to play the hero on the Firth, only to end up needing rescuing myself. Our time-bending escapades through clan warfare, dodging swords, and sharing stolen kisses, all while facing the one-bed dilemma that brought us closer. And then the jarring return to this day, where everything feels upside down and uncertain. The words tumble out of me like they’ve been waiting for this moment, and Hamish listens attentively as he steers us down the road.
As expected, Mac and Moira don’t bat an eyelid at the Loch Ness Portal legend. But what floors me is Hamish’s reaction—or rather his non-reaction. He soaks it all in with wide-eyed interest as I lay bare our adventure.
I hardly notice his occasional nods or Mac and Moira’s murmurs of understanding; I’m so wrapped up in the highs and lows of our time-traveling escapades.
Just as I reach the part where Cal and I argue, he shifts in his seat, adjusting his T-shirt.
I glimpse its whimsical logo: "Cyborgs Ate My Shortbread! "
That little absurdity catches me off guard. Knowing he won’t dismiss my story as a whimsical fantasy puts me at ease. The group’s genuine interest makes this wild ride feel a bit more grounded.
When I finally fall silent, Hamish lets out a low whistle .
“That’s quite an adventure ye’ve had there,” he says thoughtfully.
“I don’t know what to do next,” I confess. “Cal’s become my... my person! But now, everything’s one big mess.”