Staff Feature: Alyssa Schwarz
Ewan Campbell slashed his pen through the last sentence and tossed the crumpled page onto the floor. How had he convinced his publisher he’d have the manuscript ready by month’s end? He could have said a year, but with his current bout of writer’s block, even that felt optimistic.
The premise was all there, waiting to be put to paper, but it was the heroine who refused to cooperate—a Scottish princess bent on thwarting all his attempts at capturing her fiery personality.
At a loss, he’d found a cottage for rent and driven across Loch Alsh for a month-long stay on the Isle of Skye. Less than twenty-four hours in, and he was just as stuck as before.
A knock jolted him from his thoughts. Gathering his papers into a messy pile, he strode toward the cottage’s front parlor. He swung the door wide open and almost forgot to breathe.
Pale-yellow curls capered about in the wild sea breeze, framing a face of striking blue eyes and wind-kissed cheeks.
Fair maiden with hair like gold . . . He whipped a small notebook from his back pocket and scribbled down the notes before they could escape his memory.
“Excuse me?”
His head snapped up at the American accent, and he snapped the book shut.
“Is this,” she paused to squint at the page in her hands, “Faodail Cottage?”
Ewan smiled at the way she tried sounding out the Gaelic word. He leaned a shoulder against the door frame, taking his time like he would a tricky line of dialogue. “Aye, it is. And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”
She adjusted the purse on her arm and extended a manicured hand. “Sophie Campbell, from New York.”
A spray of freckles danced across her delicate nose, and he fought the urge to jot down another description.
“Ewan.” He returned the handshake, her fingers cool against his ink-smudged ones. “And what brings ye to Skye, Sophie?
“I’m here on vacation, or holiday, as you might say. My friend told me about this place, and after seeing her pictures, I had to come.”
His gaze slipped to the upholstered suitcase propped against the cobblestone.
Drawing a stapled packet from her purse, she showed him the photos and a listing of a quaint stone cottage.
His cottage.
Pushing upright from the door jam, he stared at her and the taxi disappearing around a corner at the end of the lane. This couldn’t be right.
“I’m sorry to tell ye this, but the cottage has already been let for the summer. By me.”
A frown marred her porcelain skin. “You mean you’re not Mr. Donahue? But I talked with your—his wife yesterday to confirm. Here, see for yourself.”
She thrust the page toward him, and he scanned the short missive: Dear Mrs. Campbell, we hope you enjoy your stay at Faodail Cottage . . .
Mrs. Campbell . . . His attention flicked to her ringless finger and back to the page.
Sophie Campbell. Ewan Campbell . . .
He groaned and raked a hand through his hair.
“Finally realize you’re squatting in my cottage?” Fire sparkled across her eyes like sunlight on the stormy sea.
With a sinking feeling in his gut, he ducked inside, leaving the door wide open while he rummaged through his bag, and then returned with a similar email.
“I think ye should take a look at this.” He handed his copy of a similar letter to her and waited as her face fell.
“They double-booked us?”
“I think,” he said, pointing at the top, “they assumed we were together. Married. See?”
A deep blush swept up her cheeks. “Impossible. I told Mrs. Donahue I was coming from New York, and you’re from . . . ?”
“Aberdeen.”
“Exactly. How could they have made such a mistake?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
She huffed, sending a few more curls dancing against her temple.
He’d thought her a vision before, but now, with her head held high and fire in her eyes, she could be the very princess he’d been struggling to bring to life. Swap the accent, add a tartan sash and she’d be perfect.
Like the rushing tide, the rest of the story began to take shape. Torn between wanting to write it down and continuing his conversation with the lovely American, he held his tongue while she rattled off her grievances.
If she left, he’d feel like a right eejit for sending her away, and he’d lose the only spark of inspiration he’d had in months. On the other hand . . .
“The place is all yers.”
“What?” She stopped mid-sentence, her stunned gaze locking on his. Uncertainty and a glimmer of hope crossed her face before she finally shook her head. “No. I can’t. You were obviously here first. I’ll find someplace else to stay. I’m sure there’s a hostel somewhere in town.”
The thought of her roughing it with strangers ignited a protective instinct within him he didn’t know he possessed. Despite her tough exterior, he didn’t trust the men here as far as he could throw them.
He’d figure out his own lodging later. Right now, she was his only concern.
“I insist.”
She chewed her bottom lip, contemplating his offer for a long moment. “Are you sure? I’d feel terrible for ruining your trip.”
“Ye wouldn’t be ruinin’ anything. But if it’ll make ye feel better, I know a great little pub in town. How about ye buy me a drink, and we’ll call it even.”
She arched a delicate eyebrow. “Make it lunch, and I might agree.”
He couldn’t help but smile. Turns out his agent was right.
He’d found his muse after all.
Alyssa is the author of three novels and a novella in the Prescott Family Romance series. She has written four books for the Wild Rose Ridge series. The latest, Clara, releases in November 2025.
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Spark Flash Fiction 