Page 46 of Leon

She could almost convince herself that they had set up house in the lovely cottage. She had a chance to explore the rooms the next morning, rising at ten, her body slowly adjusting to the time difference and not quite recovered from the jetlag and the lovemaking that had left her exhausted and weepy and clinging to him before falling asleep.

The rooms were wide and spacious and, of course, beautiful with a quaint and unique charm about them.

Soft light filtered through the curtains, painting gentle patterns on aged floorboards. The hush of the countryside—broken only by birdsong and the distant rustle of wind in the trees—made everything seem untouched, as if time itself had slowed to accommodate their newfound peace. She moved from room to room, fingertips trailing along shelves lined with old books and sun-warmed trinkets, each one whispering stories of comfort and memory.

In the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread mingled with that of morning coffee, grounding her in the present, reminding her that she belonged here, at least for now. She smiled at the mugs—his and hers—arranged just so, an accidental still life that made her chest ache with quiet happiness.

He appeared in the doorway, rumpled and warm from sleep, his eyes finding her instantly. "Good morning," he murmured, voice still thick with dreams.

"Good morning." She reached for him, and for a moment they stood in the golden hush, as if the world had been remade just for them. There was no need for grand words or promises; the simplicity of this morning, the ease of shared breath and heartbeat, was its own kind of vow.

Later, as they sat together at the worn pine table, laughter tumbled between them, light and spontaneous. The future remained uncertain, but here, in these rooms filled with sunlight and shadows, hope had sprouted—tentative, but real—taking root in the ordinary magic of loving and being loved.

She saw a different side to the man she had fallen headlong in love with. A charming and carefree mood that had him telling her stories of haunted buildings and tragic love stories.

"You're making it up." She wanted to bottle the beautiful moments and keep them for a lifetime. Here there was magic—whether in the air or the stories he was weaving in his rich, deep voice.

"Hand to God." His green eyes twinkled with mirth. Mrs. McDougall had appeared, a buxom, round-cheeked woman with a Scottish brogue as wide as her hips, and made them breakfast before disappearing, her smile beaming on them in approval. "The story was told at my grandmother's knees."

She narrowed her eyes as she dug into the tattie scones and wonderfully fluffy eggs. The plate was heaped with the typical Scottish breakfast that she feared she was going to have to walk miles to burn off the calories. But it was well worth every count. "Leon Andre Whitlock, I can clearly tell that you're adding to the story. And trying to give me nightmares. A Scottish lass went for a walk one foggy Sunday morning and was captured by a what? A merman and was held as his slave in a cave high deep in the sea. That does not make sense."

Leaning back in his chair, he wrapped his hands around the thick mug and realized that he was enjoying himself immensely.

"Your education is woefully lacking if you've never heard of kelpies, brownies, and bogles."

"My education is fine enough, and I was never one for fairy tales." She eyed him curiously. "I never thought you were either."

He shrugged and took a sip of coffee.

He set the mug down, the rim making a soft thud against the table, and grinned at her over the rising steam. "I might not look the part, but I'm a firm believer in a well-told tale. Especially on mornings like this, when the world feels half-dream and anything seems possible."

She pressed a crumb between her thumb and forefinger, considering him. For all his teasing, there was something wistful in the way he looked beyond the window, toward a landscape layered in mist and memory. "Maybe I'll let you convince me," she said quietly. "But only if you promise not to send the kelpies after me in my sleep."

He laughed, deep and sincere, the sound curling into the corners of the room. "Deal. Though you might have to watch out for the selkies, too, if you wander near the loch."

"Is there any creature in Scotland that isn't trying to lure travelers to a watery doom?" she teased, her lips curving as she leaned closer, drawn by the warmth radiating from him.

He pondered this, drumming his fingers on the wood. "The midges, perhaps. They're less interested in doom and more in driving you mad."

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound mingling with the morning's easy hush. For a heartbeat, the world outside faded, and it was just the two of them—their voices, their laughter, and the gentle promise of another day unfolding, rich with stories, real or imagined.

As the shadows shifted and sunlight crept higher across the table, she found herself believing, just for a moment, in all the myths he spun—and in the magic they were quietly making together, one ordinary, perfect morning at a time.

"You spent a lot of time here," she commented, breaking the comfortable silence. The meal was almost finished, and he had promised to take her sightseeing.

"Mostly summers. Between here and Ireland." He gazed thoughtfully out the window and watched the fog rolling off the hill, seeping through the trees and settling on the foliage. "I once thought about settling here."

Her brows lifted, and she felt hope springing up inside her. She had thought the same thing too. To live in the magic of the green hills and the open spaces. Without the problems facing them and the secrets and past lurking around the corner, it was something she would welcome.

"Would you?"

He brought his gaze back around to her and took in her wistful expression.

"We could be happy here." The idea was taking root and spinning out. Last night and this morning had been a wonder. Perhaps it was the place itself, but there was something different about them. They laughed more, and it did not feel as if they were being watched and judged. Here, he was simply Leon, Maggie O'Grady's grandson. Their nearest neighbor was several miles away. The village was near enough for them to swing by and take in the various local activities.

"We could be." The wistfulness in her voice told him what she kept to herself. There was still the feud hanging over their heads. He contemplated telling her what his dad had told him—let her hear the truth—but he did not have the heart to spoil the magic.

"Something to think about," he murmured briskly, pushing to his feet. "Ready?"

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