Page 7 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)
Chapter Six
Gazing around, I let out an exasperated sigh. At least this seaside village that I’ve tumbled into is undeniably gorgeous.
I let my eyes wander over the rain-drenched yet awe-inspiring emerald landscape, and for the first time since I arrived, I take a lungful of air, allowing the magic of this land to wash over me.
Its scent is like a spell, intoxicating and heady. The sharp tang of pine needles hits first, mingling with the sweet perfume of heather in full bloom. It’s a floral medley that would make any perfumier green with envy. Then there’s the salty kiss from the nearby coast weaving its way into the mix.
Every breath feels like I’m taking in more than just air—it’s as if I’m inhaling tiny fragments of Scotland itself, each molecule carrying whispers of ancient tales and timeless beauty .
After an eternity of gloom, the sun has broken free from its cloudy prison.
Its warm rays caress my face, casting a golden glow on everything around me.
A sudden warmth fills me—from the sun and within—a spark ignited by possibility.
The Highlands aren’t just around me. They’re inside me now, filling my senses with their wild charm and untamed spirit.
A sigh escapes me as I realize that bolting back to Canada with my ego bruised and battered isn’t the solution here. Perhaps this is the time to put myself first. To pamper myself a bit.
Because when you strip away all else, you’re your own best friend for life. Only you can truly comprehend your heart’s quiet murmurings and navigate through the labyrinthine corridors of your mind.
“That was shockingly wise, Mills,” I mutter to the open landscape, suppressing a chuckle. Who knew a stone gazebo near the sea could save me a fortune in therapy bills?
I launch a search on my phone instead of canceling my flight, typing “lodging in Aven Valley,” correcting typos as they crop up due to numb digits and shaky hands.
Despite my sketchy signal strength, results pop up with unexpected speed.
Bypassing hotels and crowded B&Bs, I look for something serene—any improvement on a bunk bed in a hostel.
Somewhere no one will pepper me with jovial questions about my trip or, worse still, notice my puffy eyes and dirt-smudged face.
That’s when I see it. “Rosewood Cottage: Last cottage on the cove.” The thumbnail photo shows a stone building partially covered in climbing roses, set against a backdrop of steel-gray sea.
Something about it catches my attention, a pull that’s hard to define but impossible to ignore. I tap the listing.
More photos load slowly, each one revealing another facet of what appears to be a 200-year-old cottage that walks the perfect line between charmingly rustic and possibly haunted. Thick stone walls with deep-set windows. A wooden door painted a fading blue.
The description is sparse but oddly poetic: “Rosewood Cottage. One Rosewood Lane, Aven Valley, Moray Firth. Seaside solitude in historic surroundings. Self-catering. Few neighbors. No disturbances. Just you, the sea, and whatever ghosts you bring with you.”
That last line should probably send me running to the hostel, but instead, it makes my lips curve into my first genuine smile of the day. At least the owner is honest about the cottage’s atmospheric qualities. And right now, “few neighbors” sounds like heaven.
I scroll to the availability calendar, expecting it to be booked solid—places with this much character usually are.
To my surprise, it shows immediate availability for the next month, and they offer payment plans.
Either it’s finally my lucky day, or there’s something seriously wrong with this place that isn’t evident from the photos.
Given my current streak, the odds favor the latter.
But the price per night is reasonable—suspiciously so for a waterfront property, and my budget appreciates that.
The location is remote but not completely isolated, about twenty-five minutes from downtown Inverness, according to the map.
Far enough from the city that I’m unlikely to have any accidental Brady encounters, yet close enough to civilization that I won’t be stranded entirely if this is a mistake.
My practical side pipes up with objections:
What about saving money?
What about basic common sense that says don’t book a remote cottage in a foreign country when you’re already having the worst day of your adult life?
But another voice, quieter but more insistent, whispers that this could be exactly what I need. Not just a place to stay but a place to hide.
To heal.
To finally write something honest instead of the packaged, crowd-pleasing narratives I’ve been producing.
My thumb brushes over the Book Now button, and a jolt of anticipation courses through me, almost as if the decision carries its own electricity. There’s something momentous about this decision, as if the cottage is a doorway to a time I can’t quite see from where I’m standing.
I tap the button before I can talk myself out of it.
I still have a bus ticket for tomorrow if the place is a total dump.
The form asks for my details—name, email, and payment information.
I fill it all in, my fingers warming slightly with the activity.
There’s a space for “Special Requests.” I hesitate before typing: “Arriving today. Sooner rather than later, if possible.”
After hitting submit, a confirmation screen appears almost immediately: “Welcome to Rosewood Cottage, Amelia. Your sanctuary awaits. Check-in after 2 p.m. Directions and key instructions are attached.”
It’s already 2:42 pm, according to my phone.
Okay.
I am a woman with a plan now. I’ll secure an Uber, navigate my way to that quaint little cottage, and soothe this bruised ego with a generous glass (or two) of Chardonnay.
I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for fifteen minutes as this stupid, misinformed Uber app leaves me hanging in uncertainty.
“Hang tight!” it chirpily informs me for the fourth time. “We’re finding your driver.”
A spry older man sporting snow-white hair and a grin so contagious he could be Dick Van Dyke’s Scottish cousin strolls by.
“All well there, lass?” he inquires.
“Absolutely,” I lie through gritted teeth, pasting on a smile. “Just waiting for my Uber.”
His laughter is hearty and genuine as he responds, “No Ubers in Inverness, lass.”
Of course not. Brady tricked me, a highland cow tried to eat me, and now even technology has betrayed me.
So, after Mr. Van Dyke directs me towards the shortest route to Rosewood Lane, I trudge along in my putrid yellow poncho, dragging my soggy bundle of clothes towards the last cottage on the cove.
My dress is plastered to my legs with a combination of rain and mud that’s going to be hell to peel off later. But for the first time since discovering Brady’s deception, I feel a flutter of something that might be excitement.
Or terror. They feel remarkably similar sometimes.
As I set off down the hill, my mind skips ahead to the cottage.
Will it be as atmospheric in person as it appears in photos?
Will the “few neighbors” promise hold, or will I discover that the owner lives uncomfortably close?
Most importantly, will it have a roll-top bathtub where I can soak away the day’s disasters?
These practical questions shroud deeper ones that I’m unprepared to delve into. What am I genuinely seeking in this secluded cottage? A getaway? Inspiration? A fresh start for my off-track life? And what happens if I don’t find it there?
One step at a time.
1. Find Rosewood Lane.
2. Get to that cottage without turning into Elsa.
Step Three is to figure out who on earth I am when not defined by my work or relationships, especially those that have crashed and burned. Between crafting tales about women discovering themselves and losing myself in Brady’s deceit, the genuine Amelia Sutherland has gone missing.
Maybe she’s tucked away in the corners of Rosewood Cottage, just waiting for me to find her. Or perhaps I’ll have to rebuild her from scratch, each muddy detail and battle scar a testament to my determination.
Either way, I’m all in. A shaky grin tugs at my lips as I mentally challenge the old cottage.
Alright, last cottage on the cove, let’s see what you’ve got.