Page 17 of The Love Leap

“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 wasattemptingto 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 inthe 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 publishingmeetings 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.”

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