Page 9 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Eight

The motorboat’s engine roars to life, a throaty growl that shatters the tranquility of Moray Firth. I’m at the helm of this tangerine beast, steering it like a drunken sailor towards the capsized sailboat and its rather attractive Highland occupant.

“Hang on!” I holler into the wind, my voice wobbling with barely concealed panic.

Seriously, who am I trying to kid here? My maritime experience extends to one high school book report on Moby Dick .

As I kill the engine and drift dangerously close to his boat, Mr. Highland Hottie emerges from behind his overturned vessel. His sandy blond and ginger hair is slicked back from his face, and he sports a sexy grin.

“Hey there!” His words are velvety smooth, wrapped in a thick Scottish accent that reminds me of caramel whisky poured over ice. “Fancy joining me for a swim?”

I blink at him, gripping the wheel for dear life as our boats rock in sync with the waves. “I thought you were... in need of rescue,” I manage to say.

He laughs—a rich sound that ripples across the water’s surface. “Rescue? Nah, just doing some repairs. But thanks for playing knight in shining armor.”

My cheeks flame up like a campfire is licking them. Gathering what little dignity I have left while commandeering a motorboat in my nightgown, I offer him a ride back.

“As long as ye promise not to throw me overboard,” he jokes before effortlessly righting his sailboat and securing it with an anchor.

With cat-like grace, he leaps onto my boat, and suddenly, he’s right there, so close that the warmth of his breath skates across my skin. It’s a gentle caress, an intimate whisper of air that twirls around me, sending delightful shivers cascading down my spine.

I lift my gaze to meet his, rolling my eyes in a practiced show of indifference. But inside, I’m anything but indifferent to his presence.

“Really? Isn’t that a bit cliché? Like every rom-com where the woman falls into the hero’s arms during their first encounter?”

Great job, Mills. My internal monologue is now on full display for the entire village to hear. By now, my cheeks are probably glowing brighter than a Las Vegas neon sign. I pull my lips between my teeth to stop saying more.

He smirks at me before extending his hand. As our fingers intertwine, my knees turn to Jello, wobbling like I just got off a rollercoaster. I can’t believe this! I just scoffed at the cliché of falling into a hero’s arms, and here I am, starring in my own rom-com blooper reel.

“Callum MacDowell,” he introduces himself, his delicious accent wrapping around his name like strings of red licorice. There’s mischief in his captivating sapphire-blue eyes, an irresistible allure that makes his handsome features even more striking.

Full and tantalizing, his rosy lips starkly contrast to the rough, blond-ginger stubble that dusts his jawline.

His hair is a tousled mess of sandy blonde streaked with gold, catching the late-setting sun (seriously, who knew it could still be light out at 9 pm?), and there’s no hiding the muscular build beneath that wetsuit.

Now here comes the kicker: Callum is barefoot. Not a shoe in sight. This throws my otherwise foolproof Shoe Theory into absolute chaos.

So far, I’ve deduced that the brogue-clad gents are typically deep thinkers with a soft spot for poetry and philosophy.

Sneaker buffs? They’re youthful spirits brimming with spontaneity.

Men who opt for pointed patent leather dress shoes like Shitty McLiar tend to be detail-obsessed status seekers.

And don’t get me started on those motorcycle boot wearers—they’re risk-takers oozing passion from every pore.

But what does barefoot say? It’s like stumbling upon some rare species in the wild, intriguing but utterly baffling at the same time. How does one categorize such an oddity? Is he some laid-back pacifist or just eccentric? A nature enthusiast or simply forgetful?

I admit this is my oversight. I never accounted for the barefoot type in my grand Shoe Theory. But honestly, who could’ve seen this coming? Meeting a shoeless man on a boat out in Moray Firth? It’s thrown me for a loop.

Struggling to keep my cool, I stutter out an introduction, praying that I don’t topple into his arms or the water. His head tilts in curiosity.

“What brings a lass like you onto the Firth at this hour?”

“I’m a Canadian author,” I admit with a casual shrug as I sit down, start the engine, and steer us back to the shore. “Vacationing at Rosewood Cottage just over there. Noticed your sailboat capsize and thought you might need some help.”

His eyebrows jump up, surprise painting his features before it morphs into a warm grin.

“Canadian? Really now? You’ve got quite the adventurous streak!

” The lilt in his voice rises like a melody before he adds in a lower, huskier tone, “Must say, I have a soft spot for yer country...and books. I love books. Especially ones about history.” The way he says it makes me feel like we share something precious—a mutual love for stories and the past—making him even more captivating.

As we touch down back at the dock, Callum lifts his duffel bag from the weather-beaten dock and slips his bare feet into navy blue loafers. Watching him, relief washes over me.

Loafers. Unpredictable and thrilling.

A surge of quiet laughter bubbles up within me. Knowing where he fits into my Shoe Theory brings a comforting ease.

I notice him shiver slightly in his wetsuit, and out of nowhere, an unexpected spark ignites in my chest before cascading down to my stomach and pooling warmth lower still. It’s as surprising to me as the man himself.

“You must be freezing. Want to come inside? Maybe use the shower?” I blurt without thinking.

He meets my gaze with a crooked grin. “Why not?” He shrugs nonchalantly as we leave behind the crisp Scottish air for the welcoming warmth of Rosewood Cottage.

Once inside, I guide him down the narrow hallway to the petite bathroom at the back of the cottage. “The shower’s in here,” I say, pushing open the creaking wooden door to reveal a quaint space with mismatched tiles and a pink-painted roll-top bath doubling as a shower.

When he’s out of sight, I tidy up the living area. The worn-out couch cushions need puffing up, and stray mugs litter the coffee table. I can’t help stealing glances towards the bathroom door as I close my laptop and neatly arrange my books.

When Callum steps out from the steamy bathroom, only a thin towel clinging dangerously low around his waist, all my focus evaporates instantly.

His tousled hair is damp from lingering water droplets, and his blue eyes seem even brighter against his flushed skin.

My heart flutters wildly in my chest as I watch the rivulets of water trace a tantalizing path down his chiseled abs.

A sudden urge rises within me to reach out, follow those rivulets with my tongue, and taste his salty skin.

Instead, I offer to make dinner—partly out of guilt, partly because abs like those deserve a meal cooked by someone as grateful as me.

Caught in an emotional whirlwind, I feel somewhat relieved when Callum says he wants to change into a casual outfit from the duffel bag he’d left at the door. His rugged charm only increases when he greets me again in worn jeans and a crisp white T-shirt.

Stumbling upon a few unexpected supplies kindly left by the cottage owner feels like striking gold at the rainbow’s end.

Coffee and tea sit on the counter under soft kitchen lights while fresh veggies and a bottle of wine fill the fridge.

A packet of pasta and a tin of sauce wait patiently in the pantry, promising a simple yet satisfying meal.

I’d heard about Scottish hospitality, but this is above and beyond.

I’ll definitely give the owner a glowing review.

A warmth spreads through me, gratitude mingling with relief. With these ingredients, I can whip up something impressive; show him that I’m not just some dimwit Canadian girl trying to rescue someone who didn’t need rescuing.

“Need help with anything?” he offers.

“No, no,” I assure him, hacking at a tomato with all the grace of a butter knife. But my eyes are traitors, stealing glances at him as he gets busy building a fire in the wood stove. Each log he places is an exhibition of raw strength; every bend an open invitation to admire him unabashedly.

He catches me off guard with his next remark:

“Nice nightie.” His lips curl into a mischievous grin that sets my heart racing. Damn it! While tidying up and sneakily admiring Callum’s physique, I completely forget about my nightie!

“Thanks,” I say playfully. It’s part of my ‘Stranded in Scotland’ collection.” My chest and cheeks grow hot under his gaze. Yet there it is again—an appreciative spark in those mesmerizing eyes, reflecting the roaring fire .

Our spontaneous dinner is a delightful medley of flavors and shared laughter. With each bite and playful jab passed between us, we ease into the rhythm of each other’s company. As we fall into easy conversation, Callum reminds me he wasn’t in any real danger out on the water after all.

“Well. I was attempting to save you,” I blink, lips curling into a mock pout.

He shoots me a playful wink. “Aye, ye certainly did. In that unique, Austen-esque fashion.”

“What? Do I come across as a Jane Austen character? Hm…I do have English and Scottish ancestors…”

“Amelia,” he pauses, his gaze teasingly intense. “I’ve known you what? An hour? And already, I can tell you’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

His words hit me like an unexpected wave, and I’m grateful for the sturdy chair under me. My legs feel like they’ve morphed into jelly.

“Oh, come on. You must have encountered someone like me before,” I pull in a shallow breath.

“Trust me. If I had ever met someone even remotely as fascinating as you,” Callum fires back with a grin that reveals his dimpled cheek, “I’d remember.”

“Now, tell me more about this novel of yours.” He playfully mimics my Canadian accent on ‘about,’ his Scottish lilt, giving it an enticing twist.

“I’m trying to write a new romance series set in the Highlands. One that’s honest about how messy love can be. And, for your information, I don’t sound like that!” My feigned annoyance barely masks my amusement.

His laughter echoes around the room, his eyes gleaming. But then, it’s as if someone hits the mute button on a remote, and everything goes quiet.

We’re caught in a bubble of silence as our eyes lock. The air practically vibrates with an intensity that could give the crackling fire in the woodstove a run for its money.

Callum leans back in his chair, a reminiscent smile on his lips. “Well, if you need inspiration, Amelia,” he starts, the soft Highland lilt of his voice caressing my name, “I spent all of my childhood right here in Aven Valley.”

He runs a hand through his tousled hair and continues, “The air was always sweet with the scent of blooming heather, and the distant lullaby of crashing waves echoed across Moray Firth and through these hills.” His gaze turns distant, like he’s lost in the memories.

“I was barely taller than a bagpipe when my Da first took me sailing on those waters,” he adds, chuckling at the thought. His hands move in animated gestures as if he could recreate that tiny boat bobbing precariously on waves right here between us.

“Da said I took to it like a seal to water. By five years old, I was steering our wee boat all by myself.” His tone shifts slightly then, becoming more serious but still brimming with passion.

“That love for sailing...it grew with me. It became more than just a pastime—it was an obsession. By twenty-one, I’d built Aven Valley’s first sailing club. ”

His words hang between us—not arrogant or boastful, but filled with genuine love for his town and its connection to the sea.

As Callum’s voice wraps around each word of his tale, I feel warmth threading something new around my heart. But then a familiar warning bell rings in my mind, pulling me back. I’m getting too close, too fast.

Remember Brady? Remember the heartache? The thought lingers like a shadow over this moment, reminding me of the risks of letting my guard down. It’s a silent reminder that as much as I want to embrace this new connection, I can’t ignore the lessons of my past.

I take another sip of wine, its coolness against my lips starkly contrasting with the heat between us. “Here’s to hoping tomorrow brings less excitement,” I say quietly, breaking our intimate silence and clinking my glass against his.

“Or maybe just the right kind,” he counters smoothly, his gaze never wavering from mine even as the electricity dances between our bodies.

Looking down at my bare feet, I find myself missing my shoes—the ones that usually dictate my days: heels for power walks through publishing meetings and sneakers for those much-needed escapes in nature.

The cold wood floor beneath me is an acute reminder of how far away from home I am and yet how oddly grounded I feel here.

“Suppose I should get going. Crack of dawn sailing tomorrow,” Callum announces, gathering his plate and glass. He rinses them under the tap before turning to me with a grateful nod.

“Back on the water so soon?” I ask.

“Aye, it’s how I make a living—I didn’t just build it. I run the sailing club next door,” he responds nonchalantly, as if having your own sailing club in your backyard is just another Tuesday.

“And you live...” I suddenly realize he’s likely a neighbor, and warmth spreads across my cheeks once more. His eyes twinkle with amusement as he watches me piece together this puzzle.

“You’re a local? On Rosewood Lane?” My words come out in an awkward chuckle. He leans casually against the cottage’s quaint wooden door—a door so low he has to duck slightly to avoid bumping his head.

“Three Rosewood Lane is home for me.”

“That figures,” I say, feeling like a fool for inviting my neighbor over for an impromptu shower earlier.

“I enjoyed our meal together...and your company,” he adds, his gaze boring into mine with the intensity of morning sun cutting through Scottish fog.

A wave of desire crashes over me then—one that involves pressing myself against him and exploring every inch of his muscular form right there against that door.

But before I can act on it, he swings the door open and steps out into the night air, leaving me alone in my granny-chic nightgown with nothing but my racing thoughts for company.