Page 10 of Of Heather and Thistle

“It’s exactly enough,” Ivy said, admiring her work. “Now, let’s get you into that dress.” With Ivy’s insistence and Mark’s quips in the background, Heather slipped into the burgundy gown. When she stepped out, the room fell silent.

Ivy gasped, hands on her hips. “I told you! You’ve been hiding that body under oversized sweaters for way too long.”

Heather flushed. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, really,” Ivy insisted, adjusting the neckline slightly. “It’s criminal, Heather. You could look like this all the time if you just put in a little effort.”

Mark set down his drink, staring at her with wide eyes. “Well, damn… If Mr. Darcy doesn’t fall for this, he might actually be blind.”

Heather looked at herself in Ivy’s full-length mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back.

The dress hugged her in all the right places, the silky red fabric draping over her curves like it had been made for her.

The cowl neckline, which she’d feared would be too revealing, somehow looked effortless—just the right mix of sultry and sophisticated.

And the makeup and hair—well, Ivy had worked actual magic.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Heather murmured, her cheeks flushing.

“You say, ‘Thank you, Ivy,’ and then you walk into that restaurant like you own the place,” Ivy said, practically bouncing with excitement.

Mark raised a finger like he was making a royal decree. “One condition.”

Heather sighed. “What?”

“You must text me the instant he sees you,” he said. “I simply must know if he reacts like a man in a Regency novel—clutching his chest and whispering “You cannot expect a mere mortal to withstand such beauty!”

Heather laughed despite herself, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Ivy said, handing her a pair of heels that matched the dress. “You’ve got a date to win. ”

She hovered nearby, adjusting the strap of Heather’s dress with her usual confidence as Heather nervously smoothed the fabric over her hips.

“Stop fussing,” Ivy said with a smirk, giving Heather’s curls a final tousle. “You look perfect. Sam’s jaw is gonna hit the floor when he sees you.”

Heather rolled her emerald eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at her freckled cheeks. “It’s just dinner.”

“It’s not just dinner,” Ivy shot back, crossing her arms. “It’s you, finally going after what you deserve. And for the record, if he doesn’t treat you like a queen tonight, I’ll throw my coffee at him next time he walks into the shop.”

The sound of a car horn outside cut through their banter. Ivy glanced out the window and let out a low whistle.

“Your chariot awaits. Go knock him dead, babe.”

Heather grabbed her small clutch, giving Ivy a grateful smile.

“Thanks… for everything,” she said.

Ivy gave one last approving nod, a proud smirk on her lips.

“Look at you. My greatest work yet.”

Heather huffed. “I’m not a project, Ivy.”

“No, you’re a masterpiece!” Ivy corrected, winking as she ushered her toward the door of her apartment, to navigate down to the lobby on her own.

* * *

Heather descended Ivy’s narrow staircase, the sound of her heels echoing against the worn wood. Stepping out into the cool night air, she spotted Sam’s car idling by the curb. He leaned casually against the driver’s side, his broad frame illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlight.

When he saw her, his expression shifted—his dark eyes widening slightly before a slow smile spread. He straightened, opening the passenger door for her as she approached.

“Wow, Heather,” he said, his voice low, his gaze trailing over her. “You look… incredible.”

God … he said her name as if he’d tasted it first .

She forced herself to stay calm, even as warmth bloomed in her chest. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He chuckled, shutting her car door and stepping to the driver’s side. “Pretty well? I’m wounded, truly.”

She smiled, the nerves in her stomach easing just slightly. He smelled faintly of something woodsy and warm, and as he settled into his seat, her eyes trailed him without permission.

The city lights of Millhaven flickered past as Sam guided the car down the winding streets toward downtown. The rhythmic sound of the tires on the road filled the silence until Sam glanced over at her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“So,” he said, his voice warm and casual. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

Heather glanced at him, her fingers playing nervously with the hem of her dress. She tried to keep her tone light, but her pulse betrayed her, quickening at his words. “Have you now?”

“I have. Though, full disclosure, Mark might’ve let it slip that you’ve had some big news this week. Something about an estate… in Scotland?” He grinned, that easy, self-assured smile that always seemed to throw her off balance.

Heather blinked, momentarily stunned. “Mark has a big mouth.”

Sam laughed, the sound rich and infectious. “He does, but I like him for it. So, tell me—what’s the story? A whole estate? That’s not something you hear every day.”

She hesitated, her hands clasping in her lap as she gathered her thoughts.

“It’s my mom’s,” she said, her voice quieter now.

“Or… it was. She passed away when I was a kid, and it’s complicated.

I just found out about it and, honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. It feels… overwhelming.”

Sam’s gaze softened as they pulled up in front of the restaurant, the warm glow of string lights spilling onto the street.

He parked and turned to her, his expression sincere.

“That’s a lot to take in,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“But, Heather…” He paused, his dark eyes meeting hers.

“That’s incredible. Your mom must have been an amazing woman to leave you something meaningful. ”

Her breath caught at the unexpected weight of his words. She felt the familiar tightness in her throat, the swirl of emotions threatening to rise.

“She was,” she murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

Sam stepped out of the car and quickly rounded to her side, opening the door for her before she could even move. He extended his hand to help her, and she just looked at it—strong, steady, unwavering.

“Ready?” he asked, his smile softening into something just for her.

She nodded, slipping her hand into his and letting him guide her toward the restaurant’s entrance.

The warm, golden glow of the chandeliers spilled across the restaurant, casting soft light on the polished wood floors and crisp white tablecloths.

The murmur of quiet conversation mixed with the faint strains of classical music, creating an atmosphere of understated elegance.

Heather walked beside Sam as the hostess led them to a corner table near the window.

The flickering candlelight reflected off the glass, giving the space a cozy, intimate feel.

Heather slid into her seat, smoothing the skirt of her dress nervously.

Sam sat across from her, his mocha-colored eyes scanning the room before landing on her.

“This place is something else,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Have you been here before?”

She shook her head, still taking in her surroundings.

“No. I’ve always walked by and thought it looked too fancy for me.”

Sam smirked, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward slightly. “Well, tonight, it’s just right. Besides, you deserve a little fancy.”

His comment sent a self-conscious rush of heat to her cheeks, and she quickly glanced at the menu, pretending to study it. The rich aromas of tomato-basil sauce and fresh bread wafted through the air, making her stomach growl quietly.

A waiter appeared, pouring water into their glasses and offering a practiced smile.

“Can I get you started with some wine?”

Sam glanced at her, his brows lifting in question: “Red or white?”

“Red,” Heather answered, her voice more confident than she expected. “Something dry.”

Sam nodded at the waiter. “A bottle of Chianti, please.”

As the waiter disappeared, Heather looked around again at the leather banquettes, the ornate mirrors, the couples leaning close over their meals. It felt like a different world, far removed from the bookstore and her quiet life in Millhaven.

“So,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

Heather raised an eyebrow. “That’s a vague request.”

He leaned back, his grin playful. “Okay, fine. Let’s narrow it down. What’s something you love that you’re embarrassed to admit?”

She thought about it, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Fine. I have a thing for those cheesy fantasy romance novels. You know, the ones with the overly-dramatic titles and shirtless men on the cover?”

Sam’s laughter was warm and unrestrained, drawing a nearby couple’s attention from the next table over.

“That’s not embarrassing,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s hilarious but not embarrassing. Let me guess: you’re secretly hoping to be swept off your feet by a brooding warrior prince?”

Heather rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile from spreading. “Maybe! Who wouldn’t want that?”

Their wine arrived, and Sam poured it for them before raising his glass. “To brooding warrior princes,” he teased, his dark eyes twinkling.

Heather clinked her glass against his, unable to suppress a laugh.

“And to people who don’t judge cheesy books.”

As the evening unfolded, Heather relaxed, the initial nervousness fading away.

The conversation flowed easily from there, Sam’s charm and wit disarming her at every turn.

She laughed more than she had in weeks, her shoulders relaxing as he told her stories about his travels to Paris and his disastrous attempts at making coq au vin.

They shared plates of bruschetta and perfectly cooked pasta, trading stories about childhood mischief and awkward moments from college. Sam had a way of pulling her out of her shell—his wit and charm balancing out her quieter nature.