The situation is laughable—a bed too small, a time too strange. But there’s an undeniable solace in his closeness. I curl towards the edge of the bed, my back to him, our bodies forming a question mark against the sheets.
“Goodnight,” I murmur into the void.
“Night,” comes his reply, laced with something unidentifiable.
The darkness swallows us whole, but sleep eludes me.
All of a sudden, it hits me: my Shoe Theory has been nothing more than an elaborate shield, a defense mechanism to keep certain men at arm’s length. That shield has crumbled into dust here in this surreal and timeless place, leaving me exposed.
Returning to Canada without Cal—without hearing his endearing accent whisper ‘Teine’na broinn’—is suddenly more terrifying than any Highland war.
Another epiphany strikes: Cal and I would never have crossed paths if I’d stubbornly adhered to my Shoe Theory. A man who prefers bare feet by day and boat shoes by night? He wouldn’t have stood a chance with me back home, where status updates and designer labels rule the roost. Yet here he is, potentially the love of my life—a love I could have missed because of my skewed preconceptions.
I stare at the beams on our ceiling, my entire body buzzing. Every breath I draw seems to fuse us closer together, like embers in a fire slowly brought to life by the wind. But fear—that cruel and unyielding jailer—keeps me glued to my spot on the bed.
“Amelia,” Callum’s voice cuts through the silence of the night, soft as a lover’s touch yet potent as a spell. I hold my breath, every cell in my body poised on the edge of anticipation.
“Ye make history bearable.”
His words wash over me like waves lapping at the shore of a secluded beach, warming me from within.
I let my eyes flutter shut, cherishing this moment—his voice in the darkness, his presence beside me. A faint smile tugs at my lips, involuntary, but welcome.
Perhaps this Loch Ness Portal and its moonlit mysteries have guided me towards something—orrather someone—worth braving this tumultuous journey for. Someone worth surrendering my fears to and risking another heartbreak for.
Maybe it’s not just about surviving history anymore. Maybe it’s about making history... with him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For three weeks straight,with Cal marking the days with pebbles, we’ve been caught up in the intoxicating allure of a village that feels like it’s been pulled straight from the pages of a fairy tale.
We tell the locals that we’re two modern-day explorers who’ve tripped over this magical place, keeping our identities swathed in an alluring mystery to keep us safe. Our reasons for hanging around Aven Valley? That stays our delicious secret, keeping the local gossip mill churning but never quite satisfied.
Each day kicks off with Fiona—Fi to those lucky enough to be on her good side—buzzing about like a hummingbird on steroids. Her energy is so vibrant it could give Red Bull a run for its money. She whips up bowls of porridge that taste like childhood memories and tea that warms yoursoul. Her laughter is the soundtrack to our mornings as we devour every morsel before rolling up our sleeves to pitch in.
Life here in 1645 is simple and satisfying. Yet, there’s an underlying fear and sadness. We discovered Alistair shares the farmhouse and land with Fergus and Fi out of necessity rather than choice. His wife and former clan matriarch traveled to Edinburgh and back earlier this year and fell victim to some ghastly strain of influenza—a death sentence in this era. After she died, he was forced to burn down his home and all of their treasured belongings to prevent the virus from spreading. The sorrow casts long shadows across his rugged face whenever her name slips into conversation.
Once we’ve clockedout from our chores and Cal’s work at the cobbler’s, he and I make a beeline for Moray Firth’s breathtaking coastline. We lose track of time, skipping stones across its glassy surface while diving into deep conversations that peel back layers of our souls. Dreams deferred, fears unspoken, hopes reignited—each confession weaves another thread into the fabric of our blossoming relationship.
As dusk settles over us, Fi and I retreat into the cozy kitchen where she transforms me from a culinary disaster zone into someone who can whip up meals worthy of MasterChef without setting anything onfire—an achievement I wear like a Michelin star. After dinner is served and devoured, along with lots of laughter and playful banter, Alistair whips out his drum while Fergus cradles his fiddle like it’s the love of his life. Together, they create enchanting music that makes us involuntarily tap our feet along. We dance to the irresistible rhythm that fills the night until our bodies wave the white flag.
Despite the never-ending cycle of farming, cleaning, and cooking, these days feel like an unplanned staycation—one of those spontaneous adventures that ambush you and leave you feeling refreshed in ways you didn’t even know you needed.
Just a few daysshy of the next full moon, Cal and I are tangled up like pretzels in our cozy bed. I stare out our window at the starry sky—so breathtaking without any light pollution—and ruminate on all that’s transpired.
Recently, Cal has taken to sleeping in his kilt again. I’ve deciphered this is not just a nod to his cultural roots but very likely a survival tactic in these uncertain times—and a touch of self-preservation. Sleeping side by side in our tiny bed has been an exquisite kind of torture.
Cal has this devil-may-care aura, a charm that could disarm anyone within seconds. But I've realizedthere’s more to him than flirtatious banter and alpha-man charisma. Beneath his playful exterior, he savors every moment life offers. He unabashedly embraces his desires while maintaining respect and kindness toward others.
Perhaps he accepted the nightshirt Fi sewed for him out of politeness. Still, I soon realized it barely conceals any sexy bits, especially with our frequent accidental brushes against each other. A tangible tension hangs between us, an electric current sparking with each unintentional touch or shared glance.
Through his thin clothing, I can feel the hard contours of his body, which makes it far too easy for my imaginative mind to wander into self-imposed forbidden territories. Every night we’ve spent here has been a dangerous dance of desire and restraint.
We want each other—it's undeniable. But there's this delicate balance we’re trying not to upset, a friendship I’m scared to ruin with rushed decisions.
Yet every morning, Cal only has to slip into his boots and face the day. Meanwhile, I struggle to stop imagining what’s hidden under his kilt. I’m torn between wanting to leap into something more and holding back to protect what we already have. This isn’t just about lust; it’s about something deeper, something that feels like it could last if we let it grow naturally.
Our conversations peel back layers of ourselves, revealing dreams and fears and deepening ourconnection. But I can’t help but wonder, what if this one leap changes everything? The thought both thrills and terrifies me. So, for now, I’m choosing to savor these moments. To relish in every laugh, every shared secret, and every accidental touch.
