As the eveningcoolness begins to nip at my skin playfully, I find myself rooting through my damp clothes, desperately searching for something dry. It’s a fruitless quest; each item is as soaked as the last, except for my socks and trench coat in a bag. With a sigh, I unpack everything, arranging my shoes meticulously and hanging up the soggy garments to air out. Then, tucked away in the back of the closet like a shy debutante at her first ball, I spot a clean white nightgown.
The gown is high-necked and adorned with delicate lace, radiating an aura of Victorian innocence that immediately transports me into thepages of a Jane Austen novel. A soft chuckle escapes me as I pull it over my head.
“Move over, Lizzie Bennet, there’s a new heroine in town.”
Before heading to a village store and the kitchen to whip up something to eat, I decide to first wrestle with an equally daunting beast: the dreaded Chapter One. The pristine white space glaring back at me from my laptop screen feels as formidable as any unexplored heroine, taunting me from its perch on my cozy armchair. But even as I cradle a steaming cup of Earl Grey, my gaze keeps wandering from the impatient cursor to the raw beauty unfolding beyond Rosewood Cottage’s window.
The rugged coastline whispers tales of hidden treasures beneath its rocky surface. I can almost feel the cool dampness of sand between my toes and hear the satisfying crunch of sea glass underfoot that tomorrow is sure to bring.
And then there’s Loch Ness. Draped in mystery and steeped in folklore. Ancient waters that stoke the embers of my curiosity.
Despite this overload of sensory inspiration, not a single groundbreaking sentence dares to grace my Word document. The cursor flashes at me from the untouched page like a ticking time bomb, waiting for inspiration to ignite it.
In an attempt to distract myself from this creative drought, or perhaps in some primal quest for sparkingcreativity, I find myself drawn towards the living room fireplace. I crumple some newspaper for tinder and meticulously stack two logs on top. But despite several attempts that involve matches and whispered spells learned from countless camping trips in Ontario’s backcountry, nothing takes hold.
No spark ignites.
No flame dances.
“Brilliant.” I mutter a couple of curse words under my breath. “An author who can’t even spark a measly fire.”
So. My bold attempt at survival will end not in a blaze of glory, but with frozen extremities and a bruised ego. As the living room clings to its icy temperament, I shuffle towards the window, hugging myself for warmth.
Gazing at the blue-green waters at Moray Firth, a man perched precariously on an overturned sailboat captures my attention. His sandy blond hair dances playfully in the wind while his broad shoulders hint at unspoken power—all encased in a skin-tight black wetsuit that hugs his backside like it’s holding on for dear life. He could easily be mistaken for a magazine cover model for wild Scottish adventures.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself in quite a pickle, Highlander,” I shake my head as I whisper to the cold glass separating us, intrigued by his unfortunate situation.
This wasn’t exactly the solitude I’d envisioned, butthen again, today has been anything but predictable. At least this view is easy on the eyes—a minor consolation for my throbbing forehead and wounded pride.
Poor guy, he must be freezing out there on Moray Firth.
I snatch up the key, slip on my trench coat and sneakers, and make a mad dash outside.
Chapter Eight
The motorboat’sengine roars to life, a throaty growl that shatters the tranquility of Moray Firth. I’m at the helm of this tangerine beast, steering it like a drunken sailor towards the capsized sailboat and its rather attractive Highland occupant.
“Hang on!” I holler into the wind, my voice wobbling with barely concealed panic.
Seriously, who am I trying to kid here? My maritime experience extends to one high school book report onMoby Dick.
As I kill the engine and drift dangerously close to his boat, Mr. Highland Hottie emerges from behind his overturned vessel. His sandy blond and ginger hair is slicked back from his face, and he sports a sexy grin.
“Hey there!” His words are velvety smooth, wrapped in a thick Scottish accent that reminds me ofcaramel whisky poured over ice. “Fancy joining me for a swim?”
I blink at him, gripping the wheel for dear life as our boats rock in sync with the waves. “I thought you were... in need of rescue,” I manage to say.
He laughs—a rich sound that ripples across the water’s surface. “Rescue? Nah, just doing some repairs. But thanks for playing knight in shining armor.”
My cheeks flame up like a campfire is licking them. Gathering what little dignity I have left while commandeering a motorboat in my nightgown, I offer him a ride back.
“As long as ye promise not to throw me overboard,” he jokes before effortlessly righting his sailboat and securing it with an anchor.
With cat-like grace, he leaps onto my boat, and suddenly, he’s right there, so close that the warmth of his breath skates across my skin. It’s a gentle caress, an intimate whisper of air that twirls around me, sending delightful shivers cascading down my spine.
I lift my gaze to meet his, rolling my eyes in a practiced show of indifference. But inside, I’m anything but indifferent to his presence.
“Really? Isn’t that a bit cliché? Like every rom-com where the woman falls into the hero’s arms during their first encounter?”
