I draw in a shaky breath, trying to regain some control. But with our faces so close, it’s impossible to ignore the fire burning between us.
His exhale is slow. Deliberate.
“Comfortable?” he breaks the silence. I can practically hear his heart thumping.
I swallow and pull in a breath. “Extremely,” I reply, sarcasm dripping from every syllable as I exhale and roll away, desperate to put some distance between us. “Nothing quite like sleeping in a corset for ultimate relaxation.”
“Ah, come now,” he chuckles softly. “I’ve heard you ladies love your Shapewear.”
Despite myself, I smile into the darkness enveloping us.
“Goodnight,Teine ’na broinn,” he whispers, so close I can feel his warm breath on my neck.
“Night,” I manage to whisper back, forcing my traitorous body to ignore the thrill of sleeping next to a man who’s quickly becoming more than just an accidental travel buddy.
The sunof 1645 crashes into our first morning with all the subtlety of a cannonball. I’m jerked out of sleep by the shutters smacking the window in the wind, my pulse hammering as if I’ve just sprinted down Toronto’s Yonge Street in five-inch heels. Beside me, Cal stirs, his arm flopping over onto my side of the bed.
“Is it morning already?” he grumbles, scrubbing at his eyes with his fist.
“Looks like,” I reply, nudging his arm back to its rightful territory. “And FYI, there’s no such thing as a snooze button in the seventeenth century.”
His chuckle rumbles through the quiet room and he props himself up on one elbow to squint at me under heavy eyelids. “I miss coffee,” he mutters.
“Yeah? Try missing toilets,” I joke, casting a disdainful glance toward the lurking menace that is our chamber pot beneath the bed.
Late last night, with Cal presumably lost in dreamland, I ninja-stepped with the pot to a corner of our room. It was like failing at charades, trying to hover over it without creating a sound or toppling over. Next time, I’ll risk the great outdoors instead.
But then again… wildcats and snakes and ticks… oh my.
We tackle morning hygiene with equal parts MacGyver-like resourcefulness and sheer dogged determination. Cal magics up a makeshift washbasin from a bowl, and pitcher Fiona left for us while I wage war on a bar of soap that seems hell-bent on remaining suds-free.
“Do you ever think we take hot showers for granted?” I muse aloud, splashing lukewarm water over my face.
“Every damn moment since we landed here,” he replies, toweling off his face with what feels more like sandpaper than linen.
Breakfast downstairs morphs into another episode of Survivor: 17th Century Edition. The sight of porridge is comforting until grappling with it using a wooden spoon feels akin to steering a yacht through a hurricane with dental floss.
“Wonder where they stash their microwave in this place?” My quip hangs in the air, a feeble attempt to mask my craving for the comforts of the 21st century.
“Probably next to their Nespresso machine,” Calshoots back, his wink adding an extra sparkle to my morning.
Our playful exchange is cut short by a parade of kilt-clad men strutting in, their footwear a curious blend of rugged functionality and vintage charm. My gaze zeroes in on one particularly beefy guy whose boots look like they’ve survived more wars than he has.
“Time to test my Shoe Theory,” I murmur.
“Shoe Theory?”
So, I’ve got this theory,” I start quietly, my spoon twirling in the air before it plops back into my tea. “It’s all about shoes. They’re like little personality billboards for the people wearing them.” I lean back, folding my arms over my chest and fixating on Cal’s reaction. His sandy eyebrows lift in intrigue as he leans forward on his elbows, a shimmer lighting up his eyes.
“Sounds riveting,” he teases with that Scottish drawl that makes me smile despite myself. “Do go on.”
“Well,” I press on, encouraged by his interest, “it’s not just speculation. It’s been tested and proven. Every guy I’ve dated has perfectly mirrored their shoe choice.” A surge of bitterness washes over me as I spit out the name that still stings. “Including that two-timing asswipe, Brady Reeves.”
Cal nearly spits out his tea at my word choice butmanages to let out a brief chuckle before it fades. His eyes soften as he catches my gaze.
“My Shoe Theory may have led me down some jagged paths,” I admit with a shrug. “But it’s also been an X-ray into people’s souls—proving you can judge a book by its cover... or, in this case, a man by his shoes.”
“And what exactly does yer theory suggest about him?” Cal asks, raising an eyebrow with a hint of skepticism.
