Page 3 of The Rescue

“What’s a bumpkin?” I frown.

She looks at me with her head tilted to the side and the corners of her mouth tip up.

“It’s a stereotype for someone from the south.”

“Ah, well, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I like your accent.” I run my hand through my hair, and her green eyes track my movement.

Her southern accent is soft and smooth, like honey. I could listen to her talk for hours and never get bored of it.

“Well, you’re the only one who seems to like it.” She shrugs her shoulders and her copper hair falls over them. It glimmersin the low light, it looks like the embers of a campfire, so vibrant and rich. The distraction of her hair has me jumbling over my next words.

“S-so, you’re from the south?” I try my hardest not to make it obvious that her hair had me transfixed for a second. She doesn’t seem to notice my trance.

“Unfortunately, Tennessee. I haven’t been back for a long time though. Boston is more like my home now.”

With the look on her face and her short, sharp tone, I get an inkling that where she is from is a touchy subject. I have to remind myself that this is a business relationship and decide it is best not to pry. She stands from the sofa and grabs her leather jacket.

I stand to meet her eyes, suddenly feeling nervous. “Crystal, I hope I haven’t offended you.”

She smiles at me softly, “No, it’s okay. You can take the girl out of the south, but you can’t take the south out of the girl.”

A sigh of relief escapes my lips, I’d hate to start off on the wrong foot, seeing as we will be working closely together until she finishes the website.

“I have to go. I’m meeting Dylan at The Drunken Duck; we’re having a girl’s night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She flips her leather jacket over her shoulders and I get a whiff of her sweet vanilla scent. It nearly knocks me off my feet. I was too distracted when she first walked in, but now she’s standing so close to me her beautiful scent fills my nose. She smells like a cosy day, wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa with a cup of tea.

I try to keep my face straight and not lean into her delicious scent. She once again breaks my trance. Jesus, I need to get it together. I’ve just met this woman and I’m already captivated by her.

I take a step back, creating some distance between us. “I’ll see you tomorrow, if you need a ride, please call me. You have my number.”

“Thanks.” She turns and leaves, her cowboy boots clicking on the wooden floor.

2

Crystal

I find Dylan standing at the barin The Drunken Duck.She told me this place was full of history, but in my opinion it’s a dump. Everything in this pub is old from the tables and chairs to the ancient looking man behind the bar. Dylan introduces me. I only catch his name, which is Mac. And the rest of the conversation I can’t understand. He talks a million miles per hour in his thick Scottish accent, I just smile and nod along to the conversation.

When I booked the plane ticket to come here and see Dylan, I knew I wouldn’t need to pack any of my going out dresses or high heels. I’m a social person in Boston and I usually go out Thursdays through Sundays. I’m never in short supply of a usual roster of casual dates to take me out to the fanciest restaurants and bars.

I’m so used to the metropolitan life of Boston that I forgot small towns like this existed. After I left the small town I grewup in, I vowed that I would never find myself back in a shithole like that again. But here I am, in Crossmackie, Scotland, in the middle of nowhere, not a single cocktail bar in sight. Dylan hands me a glass of something that looks like pond water, and I wrinkle my nose.

“What’s this?

“A pint of beer,” she smirks at me.

“Who are you? And what have you done to Dylan?”

She gently slaps my arm, and rolls her eyes at me. “Very funny, it’s not that bad.”

I look at her in disbelief, this is not the same Dylan who left Boston five months prior, there’s something different about her. She’s more confident, and I can see the happiness radiating off her. A certain bulky, red-headed Scottish man might have something to do with that.

We wander over to the table in the corner near the fire, and I welcome in the warmth. I’m used to the cold weather from Boston, but here the weather is a hundred times worse. The ice-cold wind cuts at you from all different directions, and don’t get me started on the rain, it does nothing for my hair. I look around The Drunken Duck, and the locals who come here everyday. It looks drab and boring.

“Seriously, how do you not go crazy here?”

“What do you mean?” Dylan asks as her head tilts.

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