His meal tastes like a fifteen-minute orgasm in my mouth. I realize it’s a vastly bad idea to say this out loud, so when we’re finished eating, I simply say, “Thank you. That was yummy.”
After we scrape the plates and load the dishwasher, Cal puts another log in the woodstove, hands me a glass filled with whisky, and settles beside me on the well-loved living room couch.
“Tell me more of your local folklore. Please?” I ask, partly hoping for inspiration, partly wanting to hear the sexy, theatrical element in his accent again.
His voice drops to a velvety whisper as he begins weaving tales of ancient Scottish lore into the tranquil evening air.
“On moonlit nights, the loch transforms into a portal, whiskin’ people away to a different era.”
“That sounds rather daunting,” I say, morecaptivated by the warmth and huskiness in his voice than the story itself.
“Or rather, it could be incredibly romantic,” he says softly, his eyes locked with mine. I can practically hear his heart skipping a beat. “Picture this: yer in the thick of a historical skirmish, experiencing first-hand the legends ye’ve only ever known from stories. And a romance that defies time.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, and I can feel something new beginning to weave around my heart.
I take a deep breath. “Maybe,” I whisper back, acutely aware of our proximity.
But then memories of Brady’s betrayal surface like evil ghosts from my past. I rise abruptly from my place beside him on the couch.
“I should go,” I stammer out hastily. The room suddenly feels too small and suffocating.
Callum rises too, concern etching across his handsome features. “Amelia. Did I?—”
“No, it’s not you,” I assure him. “I just… It’s late. I need to get up early to write tomorrow.”
Without waiting for his response, I flee into the night, leaving behind comfort, warmth, and something else—something terrifyingly beautiful yet painfully familiar:
The fear of falling too fast.
Chapter Twelve
The wind is practically cacklingas it toys with the sail, treating it like a plaything for some impish Scottish fairy. Cal’s at the helm of this tiny white vessel, handling it with an ease that stirs up a pinch of envy in me. His perfectly tousled hair seems immune to the gusts sweeping across Moray Firth.
In my packing frenzy back in Toronto, I neglected to bring a hat. To combat my unruly locks, I wrangle them into a scrunchie and take shelter under the hood of a navy sweatshirt Cal graciously offered me.
His bright blue beanie pairs well with his eyes and disheveled sandy blond hair, keeping him warm and fashion-forward. He’s sporting light denim jeans and a blue windbreaker that mirrors his beanie. And those well-worn white and blue deck shoes on his feet? To me, they whisper tales of his sailing prowess.
“I’m chuffed ye accepted my invitation,” hehollers above nature’s boisterous symphony, his eyes tinted with an adventurous glint that borders recklessness. His accent is enchanting—musical even—and I struggle not to let it amplify his handsome features or the bewitching rhythm of his words.
I mean, I need to simmer down inside. The wind’s already doing a number on my breath control as it jostles me about.
“There’s no better way to experience the Highlands than being at its winds’ mercy!”
Mercy, huh? Clinging to the boat’s side as another gust threatens to drown my chocolate-brown hair feels more like survival mode than mercy!
“Well,” I shout back, striving to match his enthusiasm without literally—or metaphorically—falling overboard. “Turning it down isn’t an option when someone pops an invite in your letterbox with more panache than a Jane Austen hero.” I flash him what I hope is a confident smile, attempting to mask the fluttering sensation that seems to do a jig in my stomach whenever he’s around.
“Ah, so Mr. Darcy has some competition now?” Cal laughs, taking my literary jab in his stride.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I volley back, maintaining that slight buffer between us. If there were an invisible line marking ‘safe’ from ‘too close,’ I’d be toeing it like an Olympic gymnast—physically and emotionally. He doesn’t push for more, and that’s one of the perplexing things about Cal that keeps meon my toes. One moment, he’s all charisma and disarming smiles, and the next, he gives you breathing room, as if he’s mastered the art of luring you in just enough before letting you float back out to sea. It’s both maddening and captivating.
I look down at my sneakers, noticing how the sea spray has already decorated them with a new speckled design—quite different from their spotless state when I left Rosewood Cottage earlier today. Shoes do have a knack for reflecting life’s unexpected detours. And these sneakers? They’re unknowingly navigating through unexplored emotional seas.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon. It’ll help keep ye steady,” he suggests, interrupting my thoughts.
“Right. The horizon,” I echo as if this line where sea kisses sky is a groundbreaking revelation instead of Sailing 101. But I obey him anyway, fixing my gaze forward. At the same time, my mind flips trying to process today’s sensory overload: the salty tang tantalizing my taste buds, the vibration of the boat underfoot, and this odd warmth that seems to ignite every time Cal is around—even with the chilly air around us.
“Ye holding up okay there, Mills?” His use of my preferred nickname feels oddly soothing.
