Page 5 of The Love Leap

When Margot vidcalled the following day, I mentioned Brady, our online relationship, and my conversation with Lila. Her eyes lit up like I’d just handed her an instant bestseller.

“A Scottish historian? Who writes you sonnets? Amelia, this is gold! Your friend Lila’s right. Go there. Meet him! Use him. Write about it.”

I’d laughed it off initially. “I can’t just fly to the Scottish Highlands because I’m blocked.”

“Why not? You’ve written four books about women who take chances. Maybe it’s time you take one.”

Ouch. But Lila and Margot hadn’t been wrong. My heroines were always braver than me—bold women who recognized red flags and walked away from toxic relationships, who chased their dreams across continents, who found true love because they were brave enough to believe in it.

In the meantime, I’d been marooned in my tiny Toronto apartment for a couple of years, engaged in a romance with my laptop and an ongoing parade offood delivery men passing me tepid Pad Thai before making a swift exit.

Brady seemed like the perfect solution. Our relationship had started innocently enough: first, his polite message on the dating app LoveLeap.com, then witty banter about Scottish folklore (research into my ancestry and a book idea I’d ultimately abandoned), and video calls that stretched into the early hours. I’d fallen for his intelligence, how he quoted obscure poetry, and how every syllable sounded like a promise.

I’d fallen for a lie.

I findmomentary shelter under the burgundy awning of a closed café, breathing in the lingering scent of coffee and pastries while trying to formulate a plan. My phone, which I fish from my soaked purse, shows 13% battery and approximately seventeen notifications from Margot.

Perfect.

The last message just reads:

Did you do it? Did you meet him? I’m dying here.

My thumb hovers over the screen. What would I even say?

Met him. Also met his wife. And I’m not a home wrecker.

I shake my head, typing nothing in the end and shoving my phone into the depths of my purse. Truth is, I jetted across the Atlantic for two things: Brady and my next bestseller.

I thought that meeting him would be like turning a key in some rusty old lock inside me—releasing all these pent-up emotions and inspiration that had been gathering dust since my parents’ last catastrophic showdown at my cousin’s wedding.

Nothing entirely extinguishes your faith in fairy tale endings like seeing your divorced parents lobbing duck confit vol-au-vent at each other a quarter century after their divorce.

I glancedown at the suitcase resting smugly at my feet—a snarky reminder of where spontaneity has landed me.

In an act that would make even seasoned online daters cringe, I browsed many Inverness hotels but never made any reservations. In the romantic ‘Surprise!’ scenario I’d crafted in my imagination, Brady and I would share a bed tonight.

But it wasn’t just lust-fueled recklessness. No, I let myself believe again. I let myself fall under love’smesmerizing spell, thinking it might be different this time. That Brady was worth throwing caution out the window for. That love was still something worth pursuing despite its past betrayals.

With a heavy sigh, I pull up the travel app on my phone only to wince at the results—it seems late May isn’t exactly off-peak tourist season in Inverness. All the budget-friendly options are fully booked, and what’s left would decimate my emergency credit card.

My phone battery is on life support, there are zero taxis nearby, and I need to find a way to the airport. The rain pours down from the awning above me, creating a watery barrier between me and the rest of the world. My fingers are numb with cold, but there’s an uncomfortable heat in my chest—humiliation slowly morphing into anger.

No.

No way!

This isn’t going to be my story’s ending. I didn’t fly four thousand miles just to let a married man turn me into a sopping mess on a Scottish sidewalk.

Plan of action:

1: March to the bus station.

2: Charge phone.

3: Rebook flight home.

If I can manage all that, maybe I can spin this disaster into writing gold because, let’s face it—my career is hanging by a thread.

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