Page 45 of Of Heather and Thistle

W hen Heather stepped inside the pub, she realized she had vastly underestimated the energy of a ceilidh.

She hadn’t meant to come. Not really. Claire had dragged her out with promises of “just one drink,” but Heather had planned to slip in, have a quick cider, and ghost before anyone expected her to enjoy herself.

The pub was alive—too alive. Music swelled.

Voices crashed. Boots stomped. And for a moment, she just stood in the doorway, feeling the heat of the crowd press in on her.

She wasn’t ready for this. It was too loud, too bright, too… real .

Her fingers curled around the strap of her purse, nails pressing into her palm.

Maybe she could just turn around. Pretend she hadn’t seen any of it.

The air was thick with the scent of whisky and warm cider, the low hum of conversation punctuated by bursts of joyful shouts and stomping feet as couples spun across the wooden floor.

A lively tune pulsed through the space, fiddle and accordion, weaving together in a rhythm that was impossible to ignore.

People clapped along, their faces flushed from dancing and drinking.

She slipped through the crowd, maneuvering toward the edge of the room where she could take it all in.

he hadn’t been in a space this bustling—this full of life—in longer than she cared to admit.

It was comforting in a way she hadn’t expected—chaotic, warm, and inviting.

She was about to head to the bar for a drink, but then—

Her eyes found him .

Heather’s breath hitched.

Flynn leaned against the bar, laughing at something, whisky glass loose in his grip.

His white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, showing the forged strength of his forearms, and his usual work-worn look had been replaced by something relaxed yet effortlessly put together.

The dim glow of the pub lights cast a warm hue over his stubbled jawline, the deep blue of his eyes, and the way his hair had fallen into an unruly mess that looked entirely too good for someone who clearly hadn’t tried.

Relaxed, easy, comfortable in a way that made her stomach twist.

Because she wasn’t.

She was coming apart at the seams, and he was here, looking like some kind of damn safe haven. And then he looked up. And saw her.

Oh, hell.

Flynn just stared. Not in surprise. Not in casual recognition.

But in knowing. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d known she’d come.

The crowd dissolved. The ceilidh buzzed on, but Heather was caught in the pull of his gaze, like a thread had been tied between them and tightened.

Then— The smirk. Heather braced herself.

Too late. Flynn excused himself from the group, set his drink down, and walked straight toward her. Heather’s brain screamed: Go!

Her body stayed.

“Campbell.”

Heather sighed dramatically. “Oh, you again.” Flynn chuckled, tilting his head at her. “Didnae think ceilidhs were yer thing.” Heather forced a wry smirk, like she wasn’t seconds from turning into static. “They’re not. I made an exception.”

“Lucky me.”

God , the way he said that.

She rolled her eyes, desperate for something sharp, detached, easy.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t know you’d be here.

” His smirk deepened. “And yet, here we are.” Heather exhaled through her nose.

The bar was too close. The music was too loud.

The air was too warm. And Flynn was everywhere.

He tilted his head toward the dance floor. “So?”

She frowned. “So, what?”

His eyes sparked. “Are you going to keep pretending yer just here to spectate, or are you actually going to dance?”

Heather snorted. “Oh, absolutely not.”

He leaned in, nearly whispering in her ear. “Why not?”

Her pulse jumped at how close he was to her, feeling his breath on the shell of her ear. “I… I don’t know the steps.” She hated how weak it sounded. She glanced at the dance floor where people were spinning and weaving through the lively Dashing White Sergeant.

Flynn grinned and offered his hand. “Neither do half the people out there. But that’s the fun, aye?”

Heather arched a brow. “Are you about to ask me? ”

He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. “Aye, I am.” His voice was low, smooth, and confident. Heather swallowed.

Well. Damn.

Heather blinked, startled by the question. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head. “Go on, lass. Ye came all this way to Scotland, didn’t you? Might as well get the full experience. And what’s the worst that could happen?”

Heather hesitated.

This was a terrible idea.

But also—

Maybe that’s why she reached for his hand.

* * *

The Dashing White Sergeant was a whirlwind of movement and energy, and Heather was entirely out of her depth. Flynn guided her through the steps, his hand steady at her back, his laughter infectious every time she stumbled. “Ye’re doing great,” he said, catching her arm as she nearly missed a turn.

“I feel like a baby giraffe on ice,” she shot back, her nerves starting to melt away.

The music surged, and Heather felt everywhere at once.

The dance was a whirl of motion; she wasn’t thinking—not about Glenoran, not about the storage unit, and not about how she had spent weeks shutting herself off from everything that felt too much.

But Flynn’s hands were warm, his grip steady.

The floor tilted beneath her, but he never let her fall.

She laughed. Out loud. The sound felt foreign in her mouth.

And Flynn? He was watching her—really watching her.

Like he had just caught her doing something she hadn’t meant to do. Heather hadn’t expected to like this.

She had told herself she wouldn’t. But Flynn made it impossible not to. And suddenly, she felt it. The way he was pulling her in without trying. The way this moment felt bigger than just a dance. The realization hit her like a punch.

Oh. Oh no.

She was in trouble.

“Better than a baby giraffe not trying at all,” he teased, spinning her around with surprising grace. By the end of the dance, Heather was breathless and exhilarated, her cheeks flushed from the exertion. As the music slowed, Flynn didn’t let go.

The pub buzzed around them, but in this moment, it felt silent. Flynn leaned in slightly, his breath warm at her ear. “Still thinking about running out the door?”

Heather’s pulse spiked.

She glanced up at him, half-dizzy, half-terrified. Of him. Of herself. Of whatever this was. Maybe. Flynn tilted his head, studying her. Like he already knew. Like he was waiting. Heather exhaled slowly. And for once, she didn’t run.

She glanced up at him, her pulse racing. “Maybe,” she said, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Well, if you do, you’re going to miss the next dance,” he said, lingering at her waist.

Heather hesitated momentarily, her heart thudding as she weighed the choice.

Maybe it was the warmth of the whisky or the energy of the music calling to her, but doubt tried to creep in for a fleeting moment.

What if this was too soon? What if she wasn’t ready?

But then she looked up—really looked at him.

The way his blue eyes softened, waiting for her decision.

The way he held himself still, not pushing, just…

hoping. And suddenly, the fear wasn’t as loud as she wanted.

Flynn took her hand as The rhythm built, urgent and bright again, guiding her back onto the dance floor.

The energy of the ceilidh wrapped around them, the rhythm of the dance infectious.

Initially nervous, her feet unsure, but Flynn’s confidence grounded her.

He moved with ease, his hand warm around hers, his steps light and assured.

“Dinnae fash, lass. I’ll lead,” Flynn said with a playful grin, his blue eyes twinkling. Heather’s breath hitched a little, her pulse quickening.

She nodded, her chest tightening. “I’m not… fashed,” she lied, trying to focus on the steps and not noticing how his presence seemed to fill all the space between them.

The dancers swirled around them, the energy contagious, the quick steps and lively tunes pulling her in.

With each step, Flynn’s hand guided hers, his movements smooth but not rushed.

They fell into a rhythm, and she felt herself getting lost in it.

She couldn’t help but laugh at how they twirled and spun, the action making her feel lighter.

“You make it look easy,” she said, breathless.

“That’s the trick,” Flynn replied with a grin, his voice low and teasing.

“Make it look effortless, even if ye’re thinking about tripping over yer own feet.

” Heather chuckled, but it was hard to ignore how the back-and-forth banter had an undeniable effect on her—how the heat of his hand against hers and how he caught her gaze made her heart beat faster.

As the music swirled to a new, faster tune, Flynn gave her a quick wink, his smile turning a little mischievous.

“Ready for the next spin?” he asked, his voice low, sending a little shiver down her spine.

“Absolutely,” she replied, her words more confident than she felt.

He pulled her into another spin, and it felt like the world faded away.

The music, the people, the noise—it all blurred, leaving just the two of them moving in sync, the space between them charged with something unspoken.