Page 23 of The Love Leap

Basking in the infectious laughter and tales being spun around the dinner table, I’m swaddled in a warmth that’s as inviting as Cal. We’re nestled within the rustic charm of his family farmhouse, and it’s here that I witness Cal’s unwavering loyalty to his roots. The farmhouse walls seem to pulse with the rhythm of age-old stories, their essence stitched into every creaking floorboard and faded family portrait.

“Here ye go, Mum,” Cal says as he effortlessly refills her teacup without missing a beat in the conversation.

“Oh, thank you, ye’re a good lad,” she replies with a warm smile that mirrors his own. Her eyes twinkle with pride and affection as she looks at him.

Across the table, Cal’s father chimes in with another tale from Cal’s childhood. “Remember when you tried to ride old Goliath, our meanest steer, when ye were just six?” He chuckles heartily at the memory.

Cal groans playfully, but there’s an undeniable sparkle in his eyes. “Aye, Dad,” he replies good-naturedly. “I remember landin’ on me arse more than anything.”

Everyone bursts into laughter again—even Cal, despite his embarrassment—and I feel grateful to have been included in their intimate circle of fond memories.

As I watch their easy banter and mutual respect, it dawns on me that for Cal, family isn’t defined by blood alone. It’s an unshakable bond cemented by time-honored traditions and shared experiences. It’s love served alongside hearty meals and steeped in cups of tea.

After we bidhis parents farewell, Cal guides me down the hill and a winding old path that leads to Rosewood Lane.

“Cal,” I start, my voice laced with uncertainty. “What did your mother say in Scots Gaelic back there? When she first met me?”

He rubs at the stubble dusting his chin, a thoughtful look settling in his eyes. “Aye, Mills, I had a feeling you’d be like a dog with a bone about this,” he answers.

I chuckle and give him a playful nudge. “Well then? I didn’t spend my afternoon wrestling with your stubborn cow for nothing. Spill it.”

He translates his mother’s words: “She said, ‘Thatbonnie lass is easy on the eyes, but I bet she’s got some fire inside her. Someteine’na broinn.”

Heat crawls up my cheeks, but when I spot Cal doubled over with laughter, my embarrassment morphs into amusement.

“Do you agree with her?” I ask once he’s regained his composure.

“A lady’s always right, especially me Mum,” he replies, but the crinkles at his eyes tell me he isn’t intimidated by my fiery spirit.

As we approachnumber three on Rosewood Lane, a warm glow spills from its windows into the twilight. His place looks newer than Rosewood Cottage. It’s bigger and taller, with ‘Laird MacDowell’ etched onto a wooden sign out front. Inside, the comforting aroma of simmering herbs wafts through the air.

His home is a contemporary haven with historical undertones. In the living room, tartan throws artfully scatter sleek, minimalist armchairs, and two whole walls are embellished with black-and-white photographs in square frames.

An antique wooden table dominates the kitchen, more like a storybook than mere furniture. Its surface is a canvas of intricate carvings, each narrating a chapter of the MacDowell lineage.

“Wow, this is a masterpiece. Did you build it?”

“Aye. Da and my brother Cam helped with the carvings,” he says, quiet pride and affection in his tone.

Is there anything this man can’t do? Next, he’ll probably tell me he bakes award-winning scones in his sleep! If I didn’t know better, I’d assume he was hiding a superhero cape beside the loafers in his closet.

“Feel free to roam around,” Cal suggests, handing me a glass of red wine before rolling up his sleeves to peel and chop vegetables.

“You sure I can’t help out?” I ask, leaning against a kitchen wall. “Or are you carefully avoiding my cooking?” I tease, lifting the wine glass to my lips.

“Quite the opposite,” he says, expertly flipping something that sizzles enticingly in the pan. “Your culinary magic was so impressive it stirred me to reciprocate.”

“Ah, so you’re implying I’ve set an intimidating standard?” I volley back, a grin spreading across my face as I gaze at him over the rim of my glass.

He smirks, meeting my gaze with equal amusement. “I suppose we’ll soon discover if I can rise to yer lofty expectations.”

“Should I brace myself for disaster?” I chuckle as he begins sprinkling an assortment of spices into his simmering creation.

“Prepare to be surprised would be a more fittingsentiment, “ he smiles. “After all, surprises are half the fun of any adventure.”

Cal’s mealis done before I have time to flip through half a chapter of his coffee table book about this part of the Highlands,Easter Ross and the Black Isle.

“Hope you’re famished,” he smiles, sliding a plate piled high with food in front of me on his hand-carved table.

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