I swallow before speaking. “Me too,” is all I manage to get out before my heart starts pounding like it’s trying to break free from its cage. “I... I’m glad we met.”
But even as the words escape my lips, panic engulfs me. My instinct is to put distance between us,to keep him at bay where he can’t breach the walls I’ve painstakingly built around my heart.
Yet there’s something about Cal that makes resistance futile. Despite all the past heartbreaks screaming warnings, all I see are green flags with this man. I’m drawn to his charm, kindness, and humor.
He steps closer, his right hand gently cupping my face. His touch sends a jolt through me, and I hold my breath as he leans in, our lips mere inches apart...
A startling sound pierces through the night, jolting me back to reality. “What in the world was that?” I step back with a gasp.
Cal chuckles and shakes his head. “Just the red deer stags having a bit of rough play. They’re like rowdy boys leaving the pub.”
I let out an unsteady laugh while trying to slow down my galloping heart rate.
The moment has passed, but the lingering electricity between us is palpable—something shifted tonight.
“Well, I should probably hit the sack,” I mumble almost inaudibly.
“Early start tomorrow.”
Cal nods without breaking our eye contact. “Aye, of course. Sweet dreams, Mills.”
A grin tugs at the corners of my lips, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of the gate. “Night, Captain,” I toss over my shoulder.
As I wander up towards my charming sanctuary, Ican practically feel Cal’s gaze burning into my backside. He’s watching me until I become a shadow swallowed by the cottage’s welcoming embrace.
Once inside, I slump against the closed door, its peeling paint cool against my heated skin. My heart is pounding like a drum solo at a rock concert, and it refuses to slow down. It’s clear to me now: whatever comes next will flip my world upside down and shake it for loose change.
But instead of dread creeping in, this buzz of excitement zips through every cell in my body.
It’s been ages since I felt this... alive?
Purposeful?
Whatever it is, it feels like I’ve finally found where I’m supposed to be, smack dab in the middle of an adventure in Scotland with a man who wears his shoes like he wears his heart—on his sleeve.
Chapter Sixteen
A week whizzesby since the wild night at the pub with Cal’s clan, lighting a fire in me for all things Scottish.
But my writing? It’s as still as a cat when you call it.
The culprit is a sinfully handsome Scottish distraction who’s taken it upon himself to play tour guide. We’ve explored every nook and cranny of Eileen Donan castle on the Isle of Skye, visited more historical fortresses than I can count, and drowned ourselves in guidebooks brimming with authentic Scottish lore.
Our days have found a rhythm as comforting as my sea-sprayed sneakers. We say goodnight at Rosewood Cottage’s door, where I try (and fail) to extinguish the sparks he leaves in his wake, spend nights tossing and turning with dreams of him, andthen wake up early to attempt to pour my heart into romantic adventures featuring my new Scottish heroine and hero, Lady Catherine and Sir John of Inverness.
By 9 a.m., just when I’ve managed to cobble together something resembling coherent prose, there’s that knock at my door.
It’s always Cal, clutching a bouquet of tangerine-hued avens flowers and looking like he just stepped out of an L.L. Bean catalog, having already worked his fields and taught sailing lessons before breakfast.
It feels like I’m living inside one of my romance novels—only this is way better because it’s real. Yet, despite this dreamy existence, something still feels off in my barely-there novel. It lacks that dash of magic that breathes life into stories.
Perchedat the table in the heart of Rosewood Cottage’s snug kitchen, tendrils of steam waltzing up from my Scottish breakfast tea, a wave of incredulity practically bowls me over. It’s surreal to think it’s time to pack up my Highland adventure and head back to reality tomorrow.
My phone is aglow with an avalanche of lively text messages from Lila, Margot, and my crew back home, their words spinning across the screen like they’re late for a flash mob. My thumb hoversindecisively over the digital plane ticket bobbing in this sea of notifications.
A twinge of nostalgia sucker punches me as I come to grips with today being my last dance with Aven Valley. The days have spun together in a delightful mix of belly laughs, unforeseen escapades, and swoon-worthy highlanders (one way more than others).
And while I’ve been busy living my best Scottish life—Brady’s deceit tucked away in some forgotten corner—I can’t ignore the accusing silence from the closed laptop in front of me. Its dimmed screen screams an uncomfortable truth: My Scottish romance novel has barely grown beyond its first few pages.
