Page 35 of Of Heather and Thistle

A s dawn’s pale light crept across the room, Heather stirred beneath her blankets, the chill seeping through the thin fabric. She opened her eyes slowly, her breath visible in the frosty air.

The house was still, but not silent. Wood groaned softly, expanding in the cool morning air, while the patter of rain on the window added a quiet rhythm.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up, curls tumbling over her shoulders.

The fireplace had burned out hours ago, leaving only a trace of smoke curling faintly in the draft.

The stone walls felt cold and heavy, but as she inhaled deeply, a faint floral note—lavender?—lingered in the air. It was subtle, barely there, but it made her pause. Maybe it was her imagination, or maybe the house was offering a quiet reminder of her mother.

Byrdie lay curled in a tight ball at the foot of the bed, and Heather smiled, stroking her fur. She stretched luxuriously, her contented purr rumbling beneath her fingertips .

“Good morning, Byrdie,” she murmured.

She chirped, blissfully unconcerned with the day ahead.

Heather swung her legs over the edge of the makeshift bed, her feet meeting the cold floor with a soft thud. The chill bit at her skin, urging her to move quickly. She glanced around, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the faded floral curtains framing the frosted glass.

The house was alive—breathing, groaning, whispering its stories.

It urged her to listen. To pay attention.

But she also felt the weight of uncertainty pressing in. Yesterday had been a whirlwind of revelations, and now, in the quiet morning light, she couldn’t outrun her thoughts.

This wasn’t just a renovation project.

It was her mother’s memory. A legacy of family history. And a future she wasn’t sure she was ready to claim.

She shook off the thought and pulled a sweater over her head before padding into the kitchen. The rough, uneven floor beneath her socks was a reminder of the work still waiting. As she stood at the sink, filling the kettle, her gaze drifted to the window.

The rain had softened to a mist, clinging to the rolling hills and skeletal trees. A landscape both foreign and deeply familiar.

Tea in hand, she returned to the sitting room. Byrdie followed, hopping onto a windowsill, her tail swishing lazily as she peered outside. Heather leaned against the doorway, watching her—Heather’s little shadow, just as curious about this place as she was.

She chirped softly, as if urging her forward.

And so she did .

Not just into the day, but into the house’s story—her story.

She didn’t have all the answers, but in the morning light, the house didn’t feel as daunting. It was a challenge, yes, but also possibility.

Her fingers itched to uncover what had been hidden.

She knelt beside Byrdie, stroking her fur as she looked out at the misty hills.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s see what this day brings.”

By the time she finished breakfast, Flynn was already at Glenoran, a toolbox in hand.

Heather spotted him through the sitting room window, moving across the gravel drive, his breath curling in the cold morning air. His jacket was unzipped, his work boots kicking up bits of frost-dusted dirt as he approached.

She wrapped her hands around her mug, watching him a moment longer than she probably should have.

There was something steady about him. The way he moved with purpose, his focus already locked on the task ahead.

She wasn’t sure what to make of him—but she’d have plenty of time to find out.

Stepping outside, she crossed the gravel path to meet him. Flynn was already assessing the front porch, his broad shoulders shifting easily as he inspected the wooden beams.

“Morning,” Heather called, her voice still hoarse from sleep.

Flynn turned, his smile breaking across his face.

“Morning,” he replied, his eyes lighting up. “You’re up early. Ready to get your hands dirty?”

Heather smiled, though she felt a little out of place. “I didn’t expect to be… involved just yet.”

Flynn chuckled, a rich sound that sent an unexpected flutter through her stomach .

“It’s a big place. If we’re going to make progress, we might need more than just me working on it. I can show you how to help with the smaller stuff—fixing up windows, maybe some clean-up.”

Heather hesitated, glancing down at her boots. They were sturdy, but she had no intention of getting them covered in paint or dirt.

“I… I’m not sure I’m cut out for this kind of work.”

Flynn stepped closer, warmth radiating from him despite the brisk morning air.

He flashed her a playful grin. “You’ve already survived haunted creaks and leaky ceilings. A little DIY? That’s child’s play.”

Heather groaned at the reminder, but she couldn’t help laughing.

“You really have no mercy, do you?”

“None whatsoever. I call it like I see it,” Flynn said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “But if you need moral support, I can always supervise. Maybe hold the flashlight dramatically while you hammer something?”

Heather exhaled in mock exasperation, glancing at the tools scattered around the porch. Part of her was reluctant, but another part…

Another part was intrigued.

And, if she was honest, the idea of working alongside him was more than a little tempting.

“Okay, fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But don’t get used to me doing the heavy lifting.”

Flynn winked, crouching down to grab a set of old tools.

“Alright, while you watch me work, feel free to criticize my technique. ”

“Don’t tempt me,” Heather said with a teasing grin. “I’ve seen enough DIY shows to know what not to do.”

“Oh, now I’m worried,” Flynn teased, laughter in his voice. “You’ll be giving me tips before the day’s out.”

Heather shook her head, laughing. “Only if you’re aiming for a ‘before’ photo on a renovation disaster blog.”

Flynn straightened, brushing dust from his jeans. “I’ll take my chances. But if you change your mind, feel free to jump in. You might surprise yourself.”

Heather nodded, unsure whether to observe or help. As much as she wanted to contribute, something about the work—and the man doing it—felt a little intimidating.

Flynn moved with focus, skill, and an ease that made it all look effortless. His hands were sure, his movements deliberate, yet his easy grin and playful remarks kept the air light.

Heather lingered near the doorframe, watching. There was something captivating about the way he handled the house—like he cared about it. Not just the physical labor, but the patience, the precision, the way he treated every worn, neglected piece like it was worth restoring.

Her gaze drifted to the flex of his arms as he measured and adjusted the old wooden beam, strength and skill working in tandem. It struck her how natural he seemed in this space, how at home he was in the challenge of bringing something back to life.

She wrapped her arms around herself, but not from the chill. It wasn’t just admiration—it was something else…something warmer. Closer.

And then there was the way he looked at her.

Not always. Not obviously. But sometimes—fleeting glances that lingered just a second too long.

Her heart did a ridiculous little flip, a sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time. She shook her head, willing it away.

This wasn’t the time for… whatever that was.

She had a house to restore. A life to figure out.

Flynn was just someone who knew what he was doing—someone helping her through the chaos.

And yet, as he bent to pick up another tool, sunlight catching the dark strands of his hair, she couldn’t quite convince herself that was all there was to it.

Flynn didn’t look up, but his grin was unmistakable.

Her stomach dropped straight to the floor.

“If you keep looking at me like that, Campbell, I might start thinking you like what you see.”

Heather choked. Actually choked.

She barely covered it with a scoff, shifting her weight and desperately trying to mask the heat crawling up her neck. “Oh, please,” she shot back, folding her arms across her chest. “I was just wondering how many more things you plan to mansplain today.”

Flynn chuckled, clearly amused. Clearly not fooled. “Och, you wound me,” he said, pressing a hand over his chest in mock injury. “But dinnae fash, lass… I’ll let you take the lead next time. Wouldnae want to bruise your pride.”

Heather needed a new planet to live on immediately.

She mustered an indignant, “Are you actually suggesting that I help?”

“Only if you dinnae mind getting your hands dirty,” Flynn said, nodding toward a loose piece of molding. “I could use a second pair of hands to hold that in place while I secure it. Unless, of course, ye’d rather stick to ‘ observing.’”

Heather hesitated, but the glint of challenge in his eyes made her straighten her shoulders.

“Fine,” she said, stepping into the room. “But don’t blame me if I break something.”

Flynn smirked, handing her a mallet. Their fingers brushed, just a quick, fleeting touch, but Heather felt the heat of it like a spark jumping from skin to skin.

Flynn didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. He just nodded toward the wooden molding, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just sent a jolt up her arm that made her grip tighten around the handle.

Heather swallowed. Focus . She was holding a tool, not his hand. Get a grip.

“Here, hold this steady while I nail it back in,” he said, voice easy, professional.

”Right,” Heather murmured, positioning the board. She could do this. She wasn’t thinking about his hands. She wasn’t thinking about how solid his grip looked as he steadied the hammer.

But as they worked side by side, the air between them felt… different. Warmer. Charged.

Flynn caught himself glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She was concentrating, brows knitted in determination, biting her lip as she steadied the board.

He smirked. Cute. Too damn cute.