Page 4 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

He glances at the clock, then back at me, a highland accent coloring his words. “Last bus to Inverness Airport left twenty minutes ago, lass. Next one’s tomorrow morning at 6:20.”

Of course it is. Why would anything about this day work in my favor?

“I could take a taxi…” I think out loud, mentally calculating what remains of my credit card limit.

“Aye, but with this weather...” He nods toward the windows where rain continues to pour. “They’re all backed up. Could be an hour wait, maybe more.”

I close my eyes briefly, searching for patience, humor, or any emotion other than the overwhelming urge to scream into the void. When I open them, the clerk observes me with an expression that has softened from wariness to pity.

“Rough day, aye?” he ventures.

A laugh escapes me, sharp and brittle. “You could say that. I came to meet someone who...wasn’t what I expected.”

“Aye,” he nods. “One of those Internet predicaments?”

“That obvious, is it?”

He offers me a smile as he shrugs and adjusts his cap. “The luggage, that expression of a lassie whose world’s just come crashing down, the desperate rush to flee the city...Aye, I’ve seen it all before. ”

Great.

I’m not just a cliché; I’m a recognizable cliché with its own taxonomic classification in the Inverness transit system.

“Where were you planning to stay tonight?” he asks, his tone shifting to something more professionally helpful.

“I had... arrangements,” I say delicately. “They’ve fallen through.”

“Aye, lass.” He drums his fingers on the computer keyboard.

“With the Spring Bank Holiday upon us, lodgings are likely to be scarce, but there’s a wee hostel up the road a bit.

It’s nae exactly luxurious, but it’s neat as a new pin and the owner happens to be my cousin’s wife’s sister. I can give her a ring if you’d like?”

The unexpected generosity from this stranger nearly shatters my already fragile composure.

See, there you go, Mills! Not every man is a self-centered jerk. I blink back the sudden tears, giving him a quick nod. “That would be... thank you. Thanks so much. Could you maybe give my phone a little juice, too?”

His smile is warm as he rummages around to reveal an assortment of cords and chargers. “Absolutely. A year’s worth of lost and found coming to your rescue, lass.”

While he dials the number, I connect my phone and take a moment to assess myself in the dim reflection of a nearby vending machine.

My chocolate brown hair clings around my face like wet seaweed, contrasting with my ghostly complexion marred by smudged mascara under my green eyes.

My once-prized jacket—once justified as an ‘investment piece’—now looks like it belongs at the bottom of a swamp rather than on me.

I am the very picture of what I am: A woman whose romantic fantasies have just crash-landed into harsh reality.

But hey, I’m also a writer. And writers use everything.

I retrieve my waterlogged notebook, flipping through it until I find a page that’s still somewhat dry. With a pen borrowed from the information desk, I jot down: “Scene: Woman learns online boyfriend is married. Setting: Rain-soaked Scotland. Humiliation ensues, but then...?”

The ‘but then’ part eludes me for now. In my novels, this is where my heroine hits rock bottom before something miraculous alters her course completely—a typical Roxy Fairfax move that turns disaster into opportunity with sheer determination and some unlikely twist of fate.

Real life isn’t so generous with its narrative arcs though.

The clerk returns with good news: the hostel has one bed available in its four-person female dormitory, mine if I want it .

“Great,” I manage to say with what must be the most unconvincing smile. “And I’ll take a ticket for the first bus to the airport tomorrow.”

As he processes my payment, his eyebrows furrow at the sight of my well-worn Canadian Tire Mastercard—it’s not my go-to card, but it’s the only one not maxed out at the moment—and I keep scribbling notes.

Maybe this is what I need—a hard fall before I can write with genuine authenticity again.

Perhaps Roxy needs to experience a disappointment in book five.

Maybe readers are ready for a heroine who doesn’t rebound instantly, who concedes that love is often complicated and painful, and sometimes it just doesn’t pan out.

Or maybe it’s time for an entirely new series.

The clerk hands me my ticket and directions to the hostel. “It’s close by, but with this downpour...” He reaches under his counter and pulls out a neon yellow plastic poncho. “On me. You look like you need a win.”

Accepting the poncho with a soft smile and more gratitude than such an item probably warrants, I murmur another thank you.

Stepping back into the deluge outside, I drape the poncho over my drenched hair and clothes and tuck my partially charged phone and notebook securely in my purse.

My dress and shoes are soaked beyond redemption, but there’s still hope that at least my laptop nestled inside my suitcase might survive this storm.

The rain has settled into a steady, determined stream—the kind that suggests it’s prepared to continue until the end of time.

I orient myself using the clerk’s directions and set off toward the hostel. Despite everything—the humiliation, the discomfort, the crushing disappointment—I feel a familiar stirring in the back of my mind. That scratch of curiosity, the question that drives every story forward:

What happens next?

For the first time in months, I’m genuinely interested in finding out.