“Still dry, so it counts as a win,” I retort playfully, cleverly evading his genuine concern hidden behind his casual question. Physically dry, perhaps, but emotionally? Not even close—not with this emotionaltempest Callum MacDowell whips up each time he flashes that heart-thumping grin of his.
Cal’s hands are steady on the tiller, his casual confidence making my heart flutter in a way I haven’t felt before. My earlier reservations, once as solid as stone, are now slipping away like sand in an hourglass. His laughter reverberates over the rhythmic splash of Moray Firth, causing strange butterflies to take flight in my stomach.
“Ye know, for someone who claims to be an amateur, you’re taking to this quicker than a Nessie sighting goes viral,” he teases, referencing Scotland’s sea monster legend.
“Guess I’m just full of surprises,” I say, feeling the corners of my mouth betraying me by curling into a smile. Captain MacDowell has an uncanny ability to coax out the version of myself I’ve kept hidden away for safer and less spontaneous occasions.
“Indeed,” he agrees playfully. “And speaking of surprises...”
Before I can question him further, a gust of wind sweeps across us, dangerously tilting the boat. My heart lurches along with it, and my laughter is abruptly replaced by adrenaline.
“Sheet in the jib!” Cal instructs urgently, pointing towards the flapping sail.
“Sheet in the—what? Cal, that sounds indecent,” I protest with an amused snort while scrambling to follow his direction. Despite my lack of technique andunderstanding of what exactly ‘sheeting in’ means, I yank at the rope with all my might.
“Ye have a dirty mind, Amelia Sutherland,” he snickers. Still, his focus remains locked on navigating us through this unexpected challenge—as does mine when it dawns on me that we could capsize into the frigid Scottish waters.
The wind feels alive, wild, and untamed. It demands all my attention, and I must not let it overpower us. But as I find a rhythm and start working in sync with Cal, the tension in my shoulders dissipates.
“See? You’re a natural,” he says, his approval radiating warmth more effectively than any sweater could.
“Natural disaster, maybe,” I mutter under my breath, but there’s an undeniable lightness in my voice that wasn’t there before. Trusting myself—and him—doesn’t seem as daunting as I had imagined.
“Embrace the unexpected. It’s where the magic happens,” he assures me, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Magic, huh?” I say quietly, thinking about old legends and new beginnings.
My life is usually crammed with pressure and deadlines. Maybe there’s room for a little magic.
“Absolutely,” he confirms, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that suggests we’re not just talking about sailing anymore. And for a briefmoment—one heartbeat—I allow myself to believe in the possibility.
The boom swingswith such sudden force; it’s as if it’s taken a personal offense to my newfound sailing confidence. My heart leaps into my throat, and I duck just in time to avoid a comical blow to the head.
“Steady on,” Cal shouts over the wind, his hands steady and sure as he adjusts our course. “Ye’ve got to sense the wind’s temperament, predict her next move.”
“Her?” I question, holding onto the mainsheet like it’s the only thing separating me from becoming fish food.
“Aye, she’s a fickle mistress, the wind. Treat her right, and she’ll take you places,” he replies with an unwavering calmness that stands out against my internal tempest.
I squint at the sails overhead, struggling to understand their flapping language. “And how do you treat a gust of wind right?”
“With respect, Mills. Always respect.” Cal says. “You don’t control the wind; you dance with it.”
“Dance?” I scoff, feeling about as graceful as rubber boots at a waltz. But then something shifts—the boat catches the breeze just right, and we surgeforward, cutting through the water like butter. The thrill sends sparks flying through me.
“See? Just like that!” Cal’s laughter rumbles through the air, and as I glance his way, a dimple winks at me from his cheek, turning his handsome face into something irresistibly adorable.
“You’re smashing it, Mills!”
“Alright then, Captain. Since we’re dancing with nature now, what comes next?”
“First off,” He quirks a brow in playful challenge before continuing smoothly. “Let’s drop formalities, Ms. Sutherland... Next up is harnessing this magic?—”
“Magic?” I interrupt him again as another gust tips us sideways.
“Precisely.” Cal leans into the tilt, effortlessly balancing us out again. “The Highlands are steeped in it. Ye’ve seen the loch, felt the stories breathing through these hills.”
“So, stories breathe now?” I smirk at his poetic words. Cal doesn’t just tell a story; he invites me into it.
