Page 9 of The Love Leap

But hey, I’m also a writer. And writers use everything.

I retrieve my waterlogged notebook, flipping through it until I find a page that’s still somewhat dry. With a pen borrowed from the information desk, I jot down: “Scene: Woman learns online boyfriend is married. Setting: Rain-soaked Scotland. Humiliation ensues, but then...?”

The ‘but then’ part eludes me for now. In my novels, this is where my heroine hits rock bottom before something miraculous alters her course completely—a typical Roxy Fairfax move that turns disaster into opportunity with sheer determination and some unlikely twist of fate.

Real life isn’t so generous with its narrative arcs though.

The clerk returns with good news: the hostel has one bed available in its four-person female dormitory, mine if I want it.

“Great,” I manage to say with what must be the most unconvincing smile. “And I’ll take a ticket for the first bus to the airport tomorrow.”

As he processes my payment, his eyebrows furrow at the sight of my well-worn Canadian Tire Mastercard—it’s not my go-to card, but it’s the only one not maxed out at the moment—and I keep scribbling notes.

Maybe this is what I need—a hard fall before I can write with genuine authenticity again. Perhaps Roxy needs to experience a disappointment in book five. Maybe readers are ready for a heroine who doesn’t rebound instantly, who concedes that love is often complicated and painful, and sometimes it just doesn’t pan out.

Or maybe it’s time for an entirely new series.

The clerk hands me my ticket and directions to the hostel. “It’s close by, but with this downpour...” He reaches under his counter and pulls out a neon yellow plastic poncho. “On me. You look like you need a win.”

Accepting the poncho with a soft smile and more gratitude than such an item probably warrants, I murmur another thank you.

Stepping back into the deluge outside, I drape the poncho over my drenched hair and clothes and tuck my partially charged phone and notebook securely in my purse. My dress and shoes are soaked beyond redemption, but there’s still hope that at least mylaptop nestled inside my suitcase might survive this storm.

The rain has settled into a steady, determined stream—the kind that suggests it’s prepared to continue until the end of time.

I orient myself using the clerk’s directions and set off toward the hostel. Despite everything—the humiliation, the discomfort, the crushing disappointment—I feel a familiar stirring in the back of my mind. That scratch of curiosity, the question that drives every story forward:

What happens next?

For the first time in months, I’m genuinely interested in finding out.

Chapter Four

The hostel’sdirections include a shortcut through a narrow passage between stone buildings, which the bus station clerk assured me would save fifteen minutes of walking.

What the kind clerk failed to mention was that this “charming historic alleyway” transforms into something from a Victorian murder mystery once you’re actually inside it.

The walls press close on either side; their rough stone surfaces slick with rain and centuries of grime. Ahead, a single lamp casts just enough light to ensure I can see how utterly alone I am in this damp corridor.

“This would never happen to Roxy Fairfax,” I grumble, dragging my suitcase through a puddle that’s deeper than it looks. My fictional heroine would havealready stumbled into a handsome local who just happens to own a luxury B&B with an available suite. She’d be wrapped in a cashmere throw by now, sipping whisky while her clothes tumbled in a designer dryer.

Instead, I’m squeaking my way through an alley in a neon yellow poncho that makes me look like a deranged crossing guard, heading toward a hostel where I’ll sleep in a bunk bed surrounded by strangers.

The passage widens slightly, revealing what appears to be the back gardens of several homes and a sloping field beyond. The clerk’s hasty map suggests I cross this open area to reach a set of steps leading to the street where the hostel is located. Simple enough—that is, if I can manage to navigate the increasingly muddy path without losing a heel or what remains of my dignity.

After wandering across the open field for what feels like half a century, the rain has softened to a steady drizzle. I pause to adjust my grip on the suitcase handle, which has grown slippery with moisture. In the near distance, I can make out lights from houses. Just a few more minutes through this overgrown area, and I’ll be back in civilization.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for this final push. Once dry in my bunkbed, I’ll swap my airplane ticket for a new one home, where I’ll lick my woundsand figure out how to salvage both my pride and my career. Maybe Brady and this whole Scottish disaster will make it into my next book.

Roxy could have a sister who makes terrible decisions, a warning sign pointing toward what happens when you abandon common sense for poetry and a sexy accent.

It might work.

My editor Melissa has been pushing for more “authentic complications” in my writing. Nothing says authentic complication quite like discovering your online boyfriend is actually someone else’s offline husband.

I step onto what I think is a graveled path but turns out to be a treacherously thin layer of stones over pure mud. My suitcase wheels immediately sink two inches, and I have to yank to free them. The movement sends me stumbling backward, my poncho flapping around me like awkward yellow fairy wings.

That’s when I hear it—a low, rumbling sound that doesn’t match the patter of rain or distant traffic.

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