Page 49 of Of Heather and Thistle

H eather stirred, the sheets cool beside her.

Her fingers brushed the empty space where Flynn had been, and her stomach clenched.

A slow, sinking weight settled in her chest—cold and unwelcome.

The bed was too big, too empty. Her fingers curled into the sheets, searching for lingering warmth, but there was none.

Of course it was empty.

She sat up so quickly, blankets tangling around her legs, her pulse hammering in her ears. What had she expected? That he’d stay? That last night had meant something more than a moment stolen from reality? She should’ve known better.

A floorboard creaked downstairs, followed by the soft thump of a door closing. Heather froze, her breath catching in her throat. Footsteps climbed the stairs, slow and unhurried. A second later, the door pushed open, and there he was.

Flynn .

His dark hair was mussed like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times on his way back. He had a brown paper bag tucked under his arm and a takeaway coffee cup in each hand. His blue eyes softened the moment they met hers.

“Mornin’, mo chridhe,” he murmured, his voice deep and smooth like honey.

Her composure shattered.

“I thought you might still be sleeping,” he said softly, stepping inside. “I didn’t mean to wake ye.”

He lifted the bag. “I got you a coffee and a pastry. I figured you might be hungry.”

She stared at him, her throat tightening. It was too much—too kind, too thoughtful, too easy. She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t know how to hold onto something that didn’t already feel like it was slipping through her fingers.

Flynn frowned, setting the coffee on the nightstand before sitting at the edge of the bed. “Did ye think I left?”

Heather swallowed, her fingers tightening in the sheets. She should say something—anything—but her throat tightened around the words.

Finally, she forced a hollow laugh. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

His jaw ticked. “Aye. Well, I didn’t.”

She exhaled slowly, staring at the wall instead of him. The weight of his presence and last night’s warmth still lingering between them was too much. Her heart hammered. For a split second, she almost let herself believe it.

But hope was dangerous.

Because if it hadn’t been a mistake, then it meant something.

And that was worse .

She shook her head, her voice quieter this time. “This… this was a mistake, Flynn.”

His body went still. A long beat of silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

“No,” he said, voice low and steady. “It wasn’t.”

Heather’s chest ached. The way he looked at her, the quiet certainty in his voice—it made something splinter inside her.

So she did what she always did. She pulled away.

“It didn’t mean anything.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Something quiet. Something hurt.

He exhaled sharply, nodding once. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

She swallowed hard. Her fingers curled tighter in the sheets. “I think you should go.”

Flynn hesitated, just for a second. Then he stepped toward the door, jaw tight.

At the threshold, he glanced back. “I meant what I said, Heather.” His voice was quiet, but sure.

Heather gripped the sheet tighter, her nails pressing into the fabric.

The words were right there on her tongue.

Wait.

Stay.

But she swallowed them down, locking her jaw.

Then he was gone, leaving behind the scent of coffee—and the taste of regret.

Heather sat frozen, Flynn’s words still hanging in the air long after the door closed behind him.

I meant what I said, Heather.

Her heart .

She pressed a hand to her chest as if she could steady the uneven rhythm of her heart. As if she could force herself to ignore the way those words had cracked something open inside her. This was precisely why she couldn’t do this.

Flynn Duncan was… good. The kind of good that made her chest feel tight and made her want to believe in things she had no business believing in. The type of man who brought pastries and coffee after a night tangled in the sheets instead of slipping out before dawn. And that terrified her.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the worn wooden floor. The room felt too small. The air was too thick. She needed to move—before the weight of it crushed her.

She pulled on the shirt from the floor, jamming her arms through the sleeves with more force than necessary. The scent of sawdust and something unmistakably him clung to her skin, only making it worse.

She stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door. Hoping. But he wouldn’t walk through it again. Her throat was tight, a dull ache spreading through her chest, but she pushed it down.

This is what you wanted.

It had to be.

She forced herself to move, shoving back the covers and yanking on her jeans with quick, jerky movements. The room smelled like him—sawdust, soap, and something warmer. Something she couldn’t name.

She hated how much she liked it.

Catching her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her hair was tangled, her lips kiss-swollen, and a bloom of color still lingered low on her throat. A stranger. Someone who had let herself be wanted.

She traced her lips with unsteady fingers.

Proof of him.

Tearing her gaze away, she slung her bag over her shoulder, ignoring the untouched coffee and pastry on the nightstand. She couldn’t touch it. Not when it made her feel… wanted. She wouldn’t think about how thoughtful it was. How easy kindness seemed to come to him.

* * *

Downstairs, the inn was quiet, the breakfast rush long over. The scent of coffee and toast still hung in the air. She slipped past, head down, avoiding Claire’s friendly smile at the front desk.

She needed to move—to outrun the restless energy clawing at her ribs.

The storage unit. Yes.

That’s why she was here. To sort through her mother’s things. To close the book on a history that had never included her. Not to get tangled up in a man who made her want to stay.

Outside, the morning air was crisp, and the overcast sky stretched low over the town. A sharp breeze bit at her cheeks as she walked briskly down the cobblestone streets, locking down her thoughts.

It didn’t matter that Flynn had been sweet. It didn’t matter that she’d woken up expecting—wanting—him to be there.

Because he was gone.

And maybe that was for the best.

She just had to convince herself to believe it.