Despite his doubt, he humors me with a gentle smile, leaning in to hear my response. His kindness and warmth always make me feel supported, even when I’m off on a tangent.
“Those worn-out boots? He’s clearly a warrior poet—a hopeless romantic at heart,” I deduce.
“Mills, he hammers metal for a living, and the last poem he likely penned was an ode to iron and fire.”
“Really?” My frown deepens. “Well, maybe he’s got hidden depths.”
“Keep dreaming,” he quips with a wink.
As we continue our meal, I assign shoe-inspired character profiles to everyone who passes us by—much to Cal’s amusement.
“So,” he asks, “the guy with mismatched boots is an undiscovered Picasso?”
“Obviously,” I reply, smirking. “And don’t disregard that young boy with the polished boots—he’s bound for some kind of scholarship.”
“Or he’s just a budding narcissist.”
“Come on, Cal. Don’t ruin my fun. Shoes are storytelling devices, even here.”
“Stories that seem to change with every incorrect guess,” he chuckles.
“That’s part of the thrill, isn’t it?”
“A thrill in misinterpretation, ye mean.” He grins at me as he playfully nudges my shoulder.
“You think so, huh? So tell me then, sailor,” I challenge him. “What do your shoes say about you?”
He pauses for a moment, his gaze locking onto mine.
“Simple: I’m a man who’s seen many places and faces... searching for something—or someone—worth staying for.”
Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outwards like a ripple on a quiet pond. I jerk my gaze away, feigning fascination with the congealed porridge before me. His words hang heavy between us, as potent and electrifying as the Highland mist.
I’m teetering dangerously close to falling off the precipice of logic into a tangled mess that no shoe theory could untangle.
When I’m about to master the art of shoveling porridge into my mouth without spilling it all over myself, Fiona breezes over, eyes bright.
“Where’d ye hail from, Amelia? Your speech is all sorts of peculiar.”
“Canada,” The word slips out before I can shutmy mouth. A wave of dread washes over me as I realize my blunder: Canada isn’t even on the map for another two centuries.
“Can...ada?” Fiona rolls the word around her tongue like it’s a foreign ingredient she’s never cooked with.
Cal gives me a swift kick under the table, his silent cue for me to tone down my 21st-century lingo.
“Far north,” he interjects smoothly, “Very cold. Lots of snow.”
“Ah,” Fiona nods sagely, and I can’t help but suspect she’s picturing a winter wonderland more akin to Narnia than Ontario.
“Our friend Millie here is quite the raconteur,” Cal continues, shooting me a look that screams: play along, or we’re screwed.
“Indeed,” I echo, playing my part. “Stories so vivid you’d swear you were living them. Like... magic.” I clasp my hands together and hope that the universal language of awe translates.
“Magic…” Fiona echoes back. “We could use a bit o’ that around here.”
“Speaking of magic,” I say. “Do you have anything to help with chilblains?” I wiggle my sore toes inside my boots.
Chilblains? Cal mouths at me across the table, clearly puzzled.
