Page 37 of The Love Leap

As I’m cinching the belt around my waist in the back room, Cal saunters out from behind some crates packed with leather and tools. My breath snags in my throat as I drink him in; he’s decked out in a vibrant green and blue kilt that the cobbler tells us is the MacDowell tartan. A crisp white shirt clings to his muscular form like it’s been painted on, accentuating every solid inch of him.

When the cobbler steps away, Cal explains that the leather and cream horsehair pouch hanging at the front of the kilt serves as a handy wallet. I can’t stop staring. The whole get-up makes him look both rugged and regal; he’s like the embodiment of the Scottish Highlands themselves.

Cal twirls me around playfully in my new garb, sashaying us back to the front room, an appreciative spark lighting up his eyes.

“Mills,” he drawls, “ye’re lookin’ quite bonnie in those breeches.”

I curtsy extravagantly in response, laughter bubbling up from deep within at our delightfully absurd predicament. Here we are, marooned in an era so distant from our own it feels like we’ve tumbled into a history textbook, yet all I can think about is how ridiculously lucky I am to be wrapped up in this time-warp fiasco with this dreamy Scottish hunk.

My gaze flicks backto the cobbler, who’s now brandishing a large pair of leather boots.

“Just crafted these. They ought to fit ye, lad,” he announces, passing them off to Cal.

Then, he turns his attention towards me and presents a pair of dainty yellow slippers embroidered with delicate flowers and impossibly thin soles. I cringe at the thought of the splintered wooden floor beneath my feet.

“Um, thanks,” I manage to say, “but do you have something more... practical? Like boots?”

The older man arches an eyebrow at me, sizing me up. “A lass wanting breeches and boots? You’re quite the oddity.”

I can feel heat creeping up my cheeks, but before I can stammer out a response, Cal jumps in.

“She’s unique. But in the best way possible.”

The shoemaker chuckles before disappearing into the back of his shop and returning with a pair of sturdy leather boots that look my size.

“These should do the trick,” he says, handing them over with a pair of stockings. “Can’t have you wandering around bare-legged now, can we?”

The boots are simple but well-made–built to last, just like the man standing beside me, his hand resting lightly on my lower back.

“As for payment...” Cal starts cautiously, “...we’re new in town and looking for work. Could we help ye out here to cover yer craftsmanship?”

Cobbler MacTavish mulls it over before responding. “Our village’s grand fair takes place tomorrow in the town square. I could use extra hands to set up and take down my stall... and maybe even model these boots.” He shoots us a mischievous wink and adds: “Might even make me a sign: Boots Fit for the Future.”

Cal and I exchange glances before quickly looking away, trying to suppress our laughter.

“I’ll need ye here before the sun’s at its highest point,” the cobbler continues. “Yer hard work will cover the cost of the boots, and I’ll even throw in an extra shilling each for yer day’s wages...” He pauses before asking, “Do we have a deal?”

With synchronized nods, we express our relief.

“Thank ye, sir, we’ll be there,” Cal assures him, reaching out for a firm handshake.

The cobbler shakes his hand and gives us another once-over, his brows furrowing in curiosity and suspicion. “Ye two are a peculiar duo, I’ll admit. There’s an air about ye... something uncommon.”

I lose my breath, paranoia creeping in. Is it that obvious we’re time travelers? Are we about to be exposed?

But Cal chuckles. “Uncommon, ye reckon? Well, we do strive to be memorable.”

The cobbler shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curving upward into a knowing smile. “Justmind yerselves out there. These are strange and dangerous times.”

With a final nod of gratitude to our newfound friend and footwear provider, we step out into the lively streets of Aven Valley. The town is awake now, its heartbeat echoing through the cobblestones underfoot. The air is thick with laughter and snippets of hushed conversation punctuated by the occasional horse whinnying or dog barking.

The scent of freshly baked bread, comforting and familiar, drifts from a nearby bakery to tease my senses. It serves as a gentle reminder that despite the unfamiliarity of this place, some things persist, irrespective of where or when one finds oneself.

Strollingdown the cobblestone lane in our vintage (okay, ancient) garb and boots, exhilaration sparks inside me, bubbling up like champagne at a New Year’s party. We’re not just tourists gawking at history from behind a velvet rope; we’re right in the heart of it, side by side.

The reality that we’re stuck here is barely a murmur in my mind, entirely overshadowed by the thrill of this unforeseen escapade. It feels like we’ve been handed an unexpected treasure, a chance to meet Cal’s ancestors—maybe even mine—and soak up knowledge from an era long gone.

I slide my hand into Cal’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

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