Page 16 of The Love Leap

Great job, Mills. My internal monologue is nowon full display for the entire village to hear. By now, my cheeks are probably glowing brighter than a Las Vegas neon sign. I pull my lips between my teeth to stop saying more.

He smirks at me before extending his hand. As our fingers intertwine, my knees turn to Jello, wobbling like I just got off a rollercoaster. I can’t believe this! I just scoffed at the cliché of falling into a hero’s arms, and here I am, starring in my own rom-com blooper reel.

“Callum MacDowell,” he introduces himself, his delicious accent wrapping around his name like strings of red licorice. There’s mischief in his captivating sapphire-blue eyes, an irresistible allure that makes his handsome features even more striking.

Full and tantalizing, his rosy lips starkly contrast to the rough, blond-ginger stubble that dusts his jawline. His hair is a tousled mess of sandy blonde streaked with gold, catching the late-setting sun (seriously, who knew it could still be light out at 9 pm?), and there’s no hiding the muscular build beneath that wetsuit.

Now here comes the kicker: Callum is barefoot. Not a shoe in sight. This throws my otherwise foolproof Shoe Theory into absolute chaos.

So far, I’ve deduced that the brogue-clad gents are typically deep thinkers with a soft spot for poetry and philosophy. Sneaker buffs? They’re youthful spirits brimming with spontaneity. Men who opt for pointedpatent leather dress shoes like Shitty McLiar tend to be detail-obsessed status seekers. And don’t get me started on those motorcycle boot wearers—they’re risk-takers oozing passion from every pore.

But what does barefoot say? It’s like stumbling upon some rare species in the wild, intriguing but utterly baffling at the same time. How does one categorize such an oddity? Is he some laid-back pacifist or just eccentric? A nature enthusiast or simply forgetful?

I admit this is my oversight. I never accounted for the barefoot type in my grand Shoe Theory. But honestly, who could’ve seen this coming? Meeting a shoeless man on a boat out in Moray Firth? It’s thrown me for a loop.

Struggling to keep my cool, I stutter out an introduction, praying that I don’t topple into his arms or the water. His head tilts in curiosity.

“What brings a lass like you onto the Firth at this hour?”

“I’m a Canadian author,” I admit with a casual shrug as I sit down, start the engine, and steer us back to the shore. “Vacationing at Rosewood Cottage just over there. Noticed your sailboat capsize and thought you might need some help.”

His eyebrows jump up, surprise painting his features before it morphs into a warm grin.

“Canadian? Really now? You’ve got quite theadventurous streak!” The lilt in his voice rises like a melody before he adds in a lower, huskier tone, “Must say, I have a soft spot for yer country...and books. I love books. Especially ones about history.” The way he says it makes me feel like we share something precious—a mutual love for stories and the past—making him even more captivating.

As we touch down back at the dock, Callum lifts his duffel bag from the weather-beaten dock and slips his bare feet into navy blue loafers. Watching him, relief washes over me.

Loafers. Unpredictable and thrilling.

A surge of quiet laughter bubbles up within me. Knowing where he fits into my Shoe Theory brings a comforting ease.

I notice him shiver slightly in his wetsuit, and out of nowhere, an unexpected spark ignites in my chest before cascading down to my stomach and pooling warmth lower still. It’s as surprising to me as the man himself.

“You must be freezing. Want to come inside? Maybe use the shower?” I blurt without thinking.

He meets my gaze with a crooked grin. “Why not?” He shrugs nonchalantly as we leave behind the crisp Scottish air for the welcoming warmth of Rosewood Cottage.

Once inside, I guide him down the narrow hallway to the petite bathroom at the back of the cottage. “The shower’s in here,” I say, pushing openthe creaking wooden door to reveal a quaint space with mismatched tiles and a pink-painted roll-top bath doubling as a shower.

When he’s out of sight, I tidy up the living area. The worn-out couch cushions need puffing up, and stray mugs litter the coffee table. I can’t help stealing glances towards the bathroom door as I close my laptop and neatly arrange my books.

When Callum steps out from the steamy bathroom, only a thin towel clinging dangerously low around his waist, all my focus evaporates instantly.

His tousled hair is damp from lingering water droplets, and his blue eyes seem even brighter against his flushed skin. My heart flutters wildly in my chest as I watch the rivulets of water trace a tantalizing path down his chiseled abs. A sudden urge rises within me to reach out, follow those rivulets with my tongue, and taste his salty skin.

Instead, I offer to make dinner—partly out of guilt, partly because abs like those deserve a meal cooked by someone as grateful as me.

Caught in an emotional whirlwind, I feel somewhat relieved when Callum says he wants to change into a casual outfit from the duffel bag he’d left at the door. His rugged charm only increases when he greets me again in worn jeans and a crisp white T-shirt.

Stumbling upon a few unexpected supplies kindly left by the cottage owner feels like striking gold at therainbow’s end. Coffee and tea sit on the counter under soft kitchen lights while fresh veggies and a bottle of wine fill the fridge. A packet of pasta and a tin of sauce wait patiently in the pantry, promising a simple yet satisfying meal. I’d heard about Scottish hospitality, but this is above and beyond. I’ll definitely give the owner a glowing review.

A warmth spreads through me, gratitude mingling with relief. With these ingredients, I can whip up something impressive; show him that I’m not just some dimwit Canadian girl trying to rescue someone who didn’t need rescuing.

“Need help with anything?” he offers.

“No, no,” I assure him, hacking at a tomato with all the grace of a butter knife. But my eyes are traitors, stealing glances at him as he gets busy building a fire in the wood stove. Each log he places is an exhibition of raw strength; every bend an open invitation to admire him unabashedly.

He catches me off guard with his next remark:

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