Page 60 of The Love Leap

Of course, he is. Any other thought is ludicrous, considering our unbelievable shared adventures. But despite trying to reassure myself and stealing glances at my silent phone every five minutes, Cal’s silence feels like a fog rolling in from Loch Ness—chilling and impenetrable.

“He could’ve at least texted. Or sent a carrier pigeon,” I grumble while tapping the kitchen window. My attempt at humor dwindles with each passing moment. The lack of scones or flowers is understandable; he can only spoil me for so long, but his absence? That’s a puzzle that even my caffeine-starved brain can’t crack.

I’ve packed my laptop,purse, and clothes in my suitcase. I need to be at the airport in five short hours from now, but Cal and I have so much to discuss first, and he hasn’t answered one text. I never thought I’d be leaving like this!

My heart runs a marathon in my chest as I pace around the cottage, each loop making the place feel smaller. “Maybe he’s finally figured out that dating a girl who uses humor and sarcasm as her shield isn’t so much charming as it is... an emotional minefield?” I cringe at my own words, self-deprecation tiptoeing dangerously close to self-pity.

I make a beeline for the front door mat and scoop up my boots.

“Enough moping.” I sigh, sliding them onto my feet and striding back down the hall to gather my stuff for today’s adventure. Each click-clack of my bootheels against the cottage floor echoes like a heartbeat, matching my resolve.

I shrug into my jean jacket, its familiar weight settling over me like armor. One last look at myself in the hallway mirror reveals fear lurking behind my eyes, but also strength.

“Seize the day,” I whisper, “Go get your love story.”

With that mantra in my mind, I close the cottage door, leave the key under the potted plant as instructed, and step onto the lane that borders the sea.

Trudging along Rosewood Lane with my suitcasewheels squealing behind me, I’m having horrible flashbacks to my first day in Inverness, complete with rain drizzle and the dark cloud of worry hanging over me.

“Cal?” I call out, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of his tousled hair or maybe even just a hint of sunlight bouncing off his broad shoulders. But all I get is silence and the echo of my footsteps bouncing back at me, a cruel reminder that Cal is nowhere in sight.

And then there it is—where Number Three Rosewood Lane should be —but instead of Cal’s charmingly rustic cottage standing proudly as an ode to Scottish heritage, there’s this jarring modern beast made of glass and steel. A bright “Learn to Sail” sign flaps in the breeze like a victory flag.

“Wait, what? Modern architecture here?” I scoff into the wind, shaking my head in disbelief. “What’s next? A Starbucks in his parents’ stables?”

The thrum of bodies around this unfamiliar structure is a sensory assault. Their garish sailing attire clashes with the subdued hues of heather and gorse blanketing the landscape. It’s like someone’s upended a pack of neon markers onto one of those brooding Scottish postcards I’d mailed to Lila when I first got here.

“Excuse me,” I pipe up, snagging the elbow of a woman whose outfit screams maritime savvy. “I’mtrying to find Cal MacDowell. He’s the owner here, isn’t he?”

She swivels towards me, her face shifting into an expression that’s half confusion, half annoyance. “MacDowell? Are ye pullin’ my leg?” Her eyes widen as they dart from my disheveled state to where Cal’s cottage used to stand behind me.

“No joke,” I reply, feeling my arch-support problem and the ridiculousness of this situation bear down on me. “He has... or had... a cottage right here.”

“Sweetheart,” she drawls, gracing me with a condescending smile that makes me itch for a gangplank to walk off. “The only thing Cal MacDowell ever constructed here were tall tales and fish stories.”

With an offhand pat on my shoulder, she flits away, leaving me standing in the shadow of bafflement with thoughts spinning faster than a Ceilidh dance-off.

Something doesn’t add up here, and it isn’t just this architectural oddity in front of me.

My feet freeze on the cobblestone path, my mind a tornado of confusion.

Seriously, what the hell is happening here? Did I smack my noggin once again on my cottage’s angled ceiling? Or... could it be something entirely different and infinitely more bizarre? Does it have to do with the Loch Ness Portal? Have I somehow stumbled intoan alternate reality courtesy of some magical Scottish legend?

“Fantastic,” I mutter, catching my disheveled reflection in a passing car’s window. “Not only am I potentially back on the market again, but I’ve also managed to mess up the space-time continuum. Classic Mills—can’t even time travel without causing a cosmic kerfuffle!”

But then, a chilling thought strikes me: If Rosewood Cottage has a new name, and Cal’s cottage has vanished… what else might have changed?

A sudden pang of worry gnaws at my insides. I hope he’s alright, and the time shift has only changed this street.

As each second slips away, the tangle of bewilderment only grows tighter. I need clarity. And there’s one place left where I might find it.

“Don’t let me down now, Tipsy Trow,” I whisper under my breath as I drag myself and my suitcase to Cal’s brother’s pub. It’s a cherished gathering spot for locals; surely it would remain untouched by time?

Chapter Thirty-One

Stepping into The Tipsy Trow,the off-kilter vibe hits me like a punch in the gut. The delightful sign outside has vanished, replaced by an over-the-top neon number above the bar that screams Campbell’s Cavern. It bathes the worn leather furniture and peeling black and gold-leaf wallpaper in an otherworldly glow.

“Excuse me,” I say to a guy nursing what looks like his fifth pint of something dark and ominous. “I’m looking for Cameron MacDowell. Is he here?”

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