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Even though I speak the language, I should have realized that the locals aren’t guaranteed to be friendly.
And I definitely shouldn’t have run off without first asking someone for information about the place, like whether it was inhabited by a crazy Scotsman who was ready to shoot on sight.
I run as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast at all, given that I’m weighed down by my full backpack and new boots.
Even though they had been comfortable so far, they were finally beginning to hurt my feet as I tried to run away, rubbing at my ankles with every step.
I really should have worn them in a bit more at home.
I begin to think that I’m doing well, breaking through, getting away in spite of all the difficulties, when I trip against a rock sticking out of the ground.
I fall to my knees, my backpack slamming into me and stealing my breath for a moment as I hit the earth.
“Hey!” the man shouts again, sure he will shoot me now. “Hey – are you alright?”
I blink, then turn, half-rolling on the ground so I can fall onto my back, letting my backpack prop me up.
It isn’t the most elegant way to get up, but it doesn’t really matter since….
And then I catch sight of who was chasing me, and it turns out that itdoesmatter.
I hadn’t gotten a full look at him before – probably because I had been more focused on the gun than on anything else.
But now as he closes the distance between us and leans down to offer me a hand. I feel my breath catch in my throat.
He is gorgeous.
Dark hair cropped short on the sides and long on the top frames his face, with equally dark eyes that are wide and expressive, as if I might fall into them if I look for too long.
He has a long, strong nose above a wide mouth and square jaw, and his skin is tanned from what seems more likely to be the natural wind and sun than any kind of device.
He’s dressed in dark clothing, practical for the outdoor environment and yet still tailored and fitted, showing off what must be an athletic body underneath.
He looks like he spends his time working on the land, with the muscles to show for it.
He’s also at least a decade older than me – probably more, I think. But at the moment, that fact barely registers.
I’m far too busy being flustered as he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
“Are you alright?” he repeats. His voice has that beautiful Scottish lilt, though not so thick that I have any trouble figuring out what he is saying. “That was a nasty fall.”
I clear my throat, remembering to let go of his hand now that I’m standing, and begin to brush myself down just in case there is an embarrassing clod of mud stuck on me somewhere.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say quickly, hoping that my cheeks aren’t burning as brightly as they feel.
“Are you sure?”
The handsome stranger takes my hands in his again, turning them over.
I didn’t notice before but his shotgun was on the ground a few paces away. He must have set it down when I was too busy staring at his face in awe.
“No grazes or bruises?”
“Just my pride,” I say with a weak smile.
I was still trembling, my legs and knees threatening to give way.
Shifting my weight on my feet I wince.
