“That figures,” I say, feeling like a fool for inviting my neighbor over for an impromptu shower earlier.
“I enjoyed our meal together...and your company,” he adds, his gaze boring into mine with the intensity of morning sun cutting through Scottish fog.
A wave of desire crashes over me then—one that involves pressing myself against him and exploringevery inch of his muscular form right there against that door. But before I can act on it, he swings the door open and steps out into the night air, leaving me alone in my granny-chic nightgown with nothing but my racing thoughts for company.
Chapter Nine
As I wriggleinto my go-to jeans, the ones that somehow make me feel both adventurous and stylish—a fashion unicorn—I’m once again ambushed by the low ceiling. My head narrowly dodges the sloping beam, and I shoot it a stern glare.
“Not today,” I warn it, flexing my toes defiantly inside my socks. “Today is a fresh start. Nothing’s going to rain on this parade, especially not me.”
Victorious over architectural eccentricities for now, I scamper downstairs, each of my steps making the old wooden floorboards croon like an ancient sea shanty. The kettle lets out its shrill whistle as I wrap my fingers around the chipped floral mug—the one that only gets more charming with every imperfection.
Then comes a knock—bold and assertive ratherthan a timid tap you’d expect from a shy neighbor. I bet it’s…
“Callum,” I sigh, wrestling with the old door that clings to its frame like it’s auditioning forSurvivor. After a tug-of-war, it finally gives way with an exaggerated groan, releasing a puff of dust.
As morning sunbeams tiptoe over the horizon to bathe Moray Firth in a soft golden glow, there stands Callum MacDowell, all tousled hair and sapphire-blue eyes—looking delicious enough to spread on toast.
His robust figure against the backdrop of dawn makes him seem like he was born from this very landscape, as if these cliffs carved him and these waters smoothed his edges.
He cradles a basket of steaming scones from the local bakery. The buttery aroma wafts up, tickling my nostrils and making my stomach do a happy flip.
“Stick with Cal, lass?” he suggests, the corners of his mouth curving up into a cheeky grin. “Given your heroics out on the Firth, I believe we’re on nickname terms now.”
“Lass? Seriously? Are we time-traveling back to 1645 now?” I blurt out with indignation before I can stop myself.
“It’s my way of showing affection,” he admits, a blush creeping across his cheeks that leaves me momentarily breathless.
“Alright then... come on in, Cal,” I manage to choke out once I’ve regained my senses, beckoning him inside. As he steps past me into the cottage, his scent—a heady blend of sea air and raw earthiness—hangs behind him like an echo. There he is again, right up in my personal space. But shockingly enough, I contemplate letting him cross not just one boundary but two.
“And if you want, you can call me Mills,” I add, taken aback at my willingness to offer a nickname so quickly.
Cal is quiet for a breath. Then he hands over a brown paper bag with a shy sense of anticipation.“I got these for you from Mary’s. Adorable little shop in the village. Couldn’t help but notice yer feet were turnin’ an alarming shade of blue last night.”
I reach inside the bag and pull out the most delightful pair of gray and red tartan slippers. They’re so cozy-looking yet elegant, it feels almost sinful to even think about wearing them. But the floors are cold, and these are calling to me, so I bend down and slip them on my socked feet.
“Aw. They’re a perfect fit! Thanks.” The words catch my throat. Without thinking twice about it, I lean forward and kiss his cheek. “And the scones smell heavenly. Can’t wait to give them a taste test.”
“Me too, I’m famished. Been out on the water coaching wee ones all morning.”
Of course. He sails. He has hip bones likeMichelangelo sculpted them. And he works with small children, too.
I inhale and let out a shaky breath. “Well, grab a seat. Let’s dig in,” I manage.
We settle by the window, taking in the endless expanse of the sea. He reaches for the teapot, stopping my clumsy attempt. “Here, let me show a Canuck how to make a proper cup of tea,” he teases, his fingers skillfully swirling the pot three times clockwise.
“Is there a secret handshake too?” I joke, watching him pour out the amber liquid with an almost ceremonial precision.
“Only if you’re serious about your tea,” he replies, a playful twinkle in his eye.
As much as I want to fight it, Cal makes it so easy to let my guard down. I think back to Brady and the heartache he caused me.
This budding attraction feels too good to be true. I should know better than to let myself get swept up in it all again... But then again, who said anything about a romance? This is just friendly banter. Right?
As we savor the scones, I feel myself unraveling like a much-folded map, spilling the beans about my career and current creative rut, which feels as precarious as the cliffs beyond Rosewood Cottage. I admit to Cal about the pressures from my publisher and how lately, the blank page seems to smirk at me in mockery.
“Writer’s block?” Cal empathizes, his mouth dusted with crumbs. “Farming can be like that too. When the land doesn’t give you what you expect.”
