Chapter One
The cobblestonesof Inverness glisten beneath my heels like rain-drenched sea glass, each stride drawing me closer to the greatest romance of my life.
My suitcase wheels grumble behind me, as stubborn as my mother when I announced this trip. But here I am, drenched and shivering in the cold Scottish rain, a cocktail of jet lag and anticipation coursing through my veins that no airplane coffee could replicate.
As I approach Brady’s front walkway, my knees buckle, and I have to stop. It feels like they’ve been introduced to a cheap blender after my vertigo-inducing taxi ride from the airport with Hamish, a hulking Highlander whose musical preference can only be described as Bagpipes-Meets-Ultimate Frisbee.
His infectious laughterand kindness had me telling myself, “This is the perfect start to what’s going to be an epic adventure,” even though my gut was doing somersaults of doubt.
As I pause at the corner, memories of Lila and our innocent Facebook sleuthing wash over me. A few days ago, we stumbled upon a photo that Brady posted. It was just an offhand shot of his BMW, parked at the end of this street. But, in the window’s reflection, a small detail caught my bestie’s sharp eye. A fleeting glimpse of an address revealed itself. It felt like we had unearthed a treasure, another piece of the puzzle adding to Brady’s captivating mystery and allure.
Shaking off the memory, I let myself get swept up by the adrenaline rush. The thrill of standing here is intoxicating. I’m finally in front of that picture-perfect scene: 22 Greyfriars Lane. Brady’s car sits nonchalantly on the street, just like in his photo. His slender stone townhouse looms ahead, exuding a shabby-chic charm that sets my heart fluttering with joy.
But something feels off. I’d imagined the window boxes overflowing with purple heather and yellow avens flowers. Instead, they’re dreary and empty, shedding raindrops onto the slate ledge beneath them.
“Never mind. It’s all good, Amelia,” I whisper to myself, an old childhood habit that rears its head when I’m under stress or swamped by emotions. I tighten my grip on my suitcase handle.
“Spontaneous,” I remind myself, “you’re being spontaneous.”
Two days ago, the idea of jetting halfway around the world to surprise my online match had seemed wildly romantic.
As the Scottish spring rain seeps through my so-called waterproof designer jacket and my cream-colored wedges play a precarious game with cobblestone crevices, I’m starting to question my decision. Suddenly, “impulsive” seems too mild of a word; “deranged” feels more fitting. If my editor were here, she’d likely be cheering for “bonkers.”
But Brady’s words from our last call echo in my mind:
I wish I could see your face when you read my words, Amelia. The way your green eyes light up when something moves you—it’s like watching the northern lights dance.
How could I not come?
After six months of messages, calls, and sonnets—actual handwritten sonnets that now sit folded in my purse—I couldn’t resist. When your online match turns out to be a Scottish historian who quotes Byron and Herrick, makes terrible puns about historical figures, and hints that he wants to see you in person, you book a plane ticket. That’s just basic facts.
I take a deep breath, tug my black dress and beige jacket straight, and march up the three stone steps to his door. The blackened brass knocker is shaped like a lion’s head, its muzzle worn smooth from years of use.I opt for the more modern doorbell instead, which emits a muted chime somewhere inside the house. My heartbeat seems determined to outpace it.
Footsteps approach from the other side, and I quickly run my fingers through my damp hair, which has probably transformed into its natural state of rebellious waves.
The little mirror in my compact confirmed as much at the airport. “Chocolate brown bird’s nest” would be the accurate description. But Brady has only seen me through unfiltered video calls, at times in PJs, so at least his expectations are already managed.
The door swings open.
And there he is. Brady Reeves.
Taller than I expected—our video calls never captured his full height—with that perfectly styled jet-black hair and those gray eyes that seem even broodier and more piercing in person.
He’s wearing black Oxford shoes (of course, fashion-conscious and brainy), gray dress pants, and a black cable-knit sweater that looks so appropriate for a rainy Scottish afternoon that I almost laugh.
Except I don’t laugh because his face drains of color when he sees me, and not in the romantic “overwhelmed with joy” way I’d pictured. More in the “seeing Voldemort at a family reunion” way.
“Amelia?” His voice cracks on the last syllable of my name.
My carefully rehearsed greeting dies in my throat.
“Surprise?” I offer weakly.
His eyes dart over my shoulder to the empty street behind me, then down to my suitcase, before snapping back to my face.
“What are ye?—”
“Brady?” A woman’s voice calls from somewhere inside the house. “Who is it, love?”
