Page 5 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Four
The hostel’s directions include a shortcut through a narrow passage between stone buildings, which the bus station clerk assured me would save fifteen minutes of walking.
What the kind clerk failed to mention was that this “charming historic alleyway” transforms into something from a Victorian murder mystery once you’re actually inside it.
The walls press close on either side; their rough stone surfaces slick with rain and centuries of grime. Ahead, a single lamp casts just enough light to ensure I can see how utterly alone I am in this damp corridor.
“This would never happen to Roxy Fairfax,” I grumble, dragging my suitcase through a puddle that’s deeper than it looks.
My fictional heroine would have already stumbled into a handsome local who just happens to own a luxury B my purse swings wildly like some sort of weaponized accessory, smacking me in the face every now and then for good measure.
Eventually, I skid to an ungraceful halt at the base of this hill-from-hell; face mashed against what feels like nettles and limbs arranged like an abstract art piece.
For a moment, I just lie there conducting a mental check-up—everything hurts, but it’s more bruise-y than broken-y .
My poncho has somehow transformed into a makeshift mummy costume around my lower half.
Lifting my head enough to survey my surroundings reveals I’ve crash-landed into what looks like a Gothic church overlooking the coast—complete with stunning stained glass windows, pointed arches, and an old stone wall about three feet away from my current position of defeat.
A sound escapes me—a mix between laugh and sob—as the realization hits: I was chased by a cow...and lost spectacularly. Rolling onto my back, laughter bubbles up from deep inside me, uncontrollable and tinged with hysteria.
“Girl meets boy, boy turns out to be married, girl gets chased by angry cow,” I wheeze.
The moment I stand, I feel like an exhibit at a mud sculpture festival. My hair is a wet mop, my poncho is torn, my suitcase dented.
My cheeks are scorching with embarrassment. I need to get out of here before anyone sees the walking disaster that is me right now! Gathering my scattered belongings, I look up the hill. No sign of Buttercup or her Scottish savior, thank goodness.
Just as I’m about to make a hasty exit, there’s movement at the top of the hill and there he is again—the tall, muscular figure checking on me. Panic surges through me; there’s no way I can face him looking like this! Hastily, I yank my poncho hood over my head and bolt from the scene .
I stumble upon a picturesque stone gazebo nestled among rose bushes—it’s perfect. Once inside, I kick off the soaked wedge heels and pull my beloved combat boots and socks from my suitcase. Finally, dry feet.
What do you know? One small victory today.