Page 7 of The Love Leap

Book five is now nine months overdue.

I slip on a particularly slick patch of stone and barely catch myself on a lamppost, my free hand splayed against the cold metal. A teenage boy passing by raises his eyebrows but doesn’t stop—possibly recognizing that I’ve reached a boss level of disaster, where helping might unlock an unwanted side quest.

“Just living my best life,” I mutter as he hurries past.

The narrow street opens into a slightly wider road with actual traffic—a promising sign of civilization and potential transportation options. With its remaining 9% battery, my phone informs me that the bus station is allegedly just two blocks away. Whether these are Canadian blocks or Scottish blocks remains to be determined, but having a destination feels like progress.

I think back to when I finally decided to buy the plane ticket. It was 2 AM, I was staring at a blinking cursor in my blank manuscript, and Brady had just sent me a voice message reading Keats in his smooth Edinburgh accent.

“Mills, I wish you could see the moon over Inverness Cathedral right now. It made me think of this...” And then his voice, seducing me with words written two centuries ago as if they were fresh and meant just for me.

The same voice that an hour ago had said, “My wife is inside.”

I’d booked the flight that night, fueled by career desperation, sexual attraction, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, being in Scotland, breathing its air, walking its streets, surprising the man who made poetry sound like a living language—would unlock whatever was frozen inside me.

“Find your inspiration,” Margot had said during our last video call. “Your first books had spark. They were romantic, funny and sexy. This new stuff readslike you’re trying to convince yourself that love is real. Readers will notice.”

She leaned closer to the screen, her chunky orange necklace clicking against her desk’s polished surface.

“This Brady guy—he’s doing something for you. You mentioned him three times in five minutes. Use that. Forget about London and Roxy Fairfax for now. Go have a fling with your Scottish historian. Write about it. Let love light you up again.”

So here I am. Lit up like a short-circuited Christmas display in the Scottish rain.

My phone buzzes, and I squint at the rain-splattered screen. It’s Lila.

“Hey. How are you? Please tell me you’re still at the airport?” her voice crackles through the speaker as she adds:

“Don’t go to Brady’s house.”

I stop walking to wipe raindrops off my forehead and eyes. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so glad you called! Hearing your voice right now is the only thing keeping me from hurling myself into Loch Ness.”

“Don’t do that, and don’t go to that address,” she presses on urgently. “He’s married, Mills.”

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I know.”

There’s a pause on her end. It’s shock. Or sympathy. Maybe both. Then she launches into an outraged tirade that would make any sailor blush.

“I woke up with this nagging doubt,” she continues. “So I dug deeper, did a reverse image search, and found his Other Facebook,” she spits this out like it’s a curse word, “the one he doesn’t use for dating sites.”

Her words hit like a thousand punches to the gut. Not once did I spot the wedding ring that Lila found so easily in his personal Facebook photos. Not once did I question why his apartment always looked so impersonal in our video chats.

Because it wasn’t his home, I now realize, but an office he deemed safe for our online chats, away from prying eyes and curious colleagues.

“He’s the worst kind of player,” she asserts with a bite in her voice that makes me wince. “And Brady isn’t even his real name. I’m so sorry, Mills.”

“What?” I choke out. “What’s his real name?” Despite everything, the question slips out before I can stop myself.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Lila sighs softly.

“Do you really need to know? He’s not worth another second of your time. From here on end, we shall call him Shitty McLiar.”

I groan, pressing my hand to my forehead. “God, I feel like such an idiot!”

“No way! You’re not the one at fault here,” she insists fiercely. “He’s the jerkface who lied and cheated. If I ever get my hands on him...”

Her threat dissolves into mutters of creative punishment involving testicles and rope burns that make me chuckle loudly despite everything.

“Are you okay though?” Her voice softens then, anger giving way to genuine concern.

---