Page 51 of Of Heather and Thistle

S ummer was coming to a close, wrapping the Highlands in a golden haze. The days stretched long, the sky a brilliant blue that melted into soft hues of pink and purple come evening.

The air smelled of sun-warmed earth, wild heather, and the distant brine of the sea, carried inland by the shifting breeze. Even the rain, when it came, was different—warmer now, gentler. The kind that misted over the hills instead of lashing against them. Heather had never seen anything like it.

When she arrived, winter clung to the land, the skies perpetually gray, the wind biting her skin.

The damp cold had seeped into her bones, making everything feel heavier—like the past she had come to sort through.

But now, the world felt alive. The fields near Glenoran were bursting with color—heather and thistle swaying lazily in the breeze, their purples and greens painting the hills like watercolors.

The lochs shimmered under the sunlight, and the forests hummed with birdsong, the deep green of the trees richer than she had ever imagined.

It was beautiful. And yet, the more beautiful it became, the more it hurt to look at.

Every wild bloom and polished stone felt like a thread tightening around her heart—tugging her closer to something she couldn’t let herself want.

She had spent the last few months trying not to notice.

Trying not to let it sink in. Because soon, she’d be leaving.

Heather pushed aside the thought as she walked into her room at the inn, dropping her bag on the floor.

She’d finished going through storage and was nearly done with the last few loose ends tying her here.

All she needed was confirmation from Mr. Reid about her mother’s relatives, and she could move forward with selling Glenoran.

Then, she could go back to Millhaven, back to the life she spent so much time building for herself.

She told herself that life was still waiting for her.

A career. A clean slate. A city where no one expected anything.

But the truth was, Millhaven didn’t feel like hers anymore. Not really. Not like this place did.

And that terrified her.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her from her thoughts. She reached for it absently, but her pulse stuttered when she saw the name on the screen.

Flynn Duncan .

Swallowing, she swiped the message open.

‘The House is done. All’s left is furniture and final touches. You should come to see it.’

Heather inhaled again slowly, the warmth of the summer air pressing against the windowpanes. It was time. And she wasn’t ready. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The logical response would be a simple thank you, maybe a promise to stop by soon. Something detached, professional.

Instead, she typed, “I’ll be there this afternoon.”

The moment she hit send, her stomach clenched. Returning to Glenoran felt like stepping into a story that wasn’t hers to finish. And worse, stepping into a place that had started to feel like home, even when she fought against it. Even when she fought against him.

* * *

Heather pulled up to the house, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

The sight of Glenoran, fully restored, sent a sharp pang through her chest. The crumbling edges had been smoothed, the windows gleamed in the soft summer light, and the once-weathered wood of the doors now stood strong, rich with new stain.

It looked like it had been waiting—like it had been brought back to life. And Flynn had done it.

She inhaled deeply before stepping out of the car.

The air smelled like rain and freshly cut wood, like earth warmed by the highland sun.

She wasn’t ready for this. But she walked up the steps anyway, pushing open the heavy door without knocking.

She stepped inside Glenoran, the scent of sawdust and polish lingering in the air.

The house was warm, golden afternoon light spilling through the tall windows, illuminating the restored stone walls and rich wood beams. Footsteps echoed through the kitchen.

“Thought I heard you pull up.”

Heather turned to find Flynn leaning against the banister, arms crossed over his chest. His shirt was dusty, his jeans stained from work, but he looked the same—steady, solid, like the kind of man who didn’t waver. Like the kind of man who didn’t leave.

She exhaled, pushing down the strange swirl of emotions. “You finished it.”

His blue eyes flickered to her, searching her face. “Aye. Come see.”

She followed him down the hall, the sound of their footsteps softened on the refinished floors.

The sitting room was first—cozy and elegant, with the grand fireplace at its heart.

The original stone had been carefully cleaned, and the old wooden mantel was restored to its former richness.

The furniture hadn’t arrived yet, but she could already picture it: tufted armchairs by the fire, a whisky decanter on the side table.

Heather ran her fingers along the windowsill, nodding. “It looks…right.”

Flynn hummed. “That was the idea. Keep the first floor true to what it was, just—” he gestured around, “—Usable.”

She followed him into the library next. The built-in shelves stretched floor to ceiling, freshly oiled and waiting to be filled.

The large windows framed the lush greenery outside, and in the center of the room, a heavy wooden desk sat, its surface smooth and inviting. Her mother would have loved this.

Heather swallowed. “It’s perfect.”

Flynn glanced at her, but she quickly turned, moving to the next room before he could look too closely. The dining room was grand, the long wooden table refinished and polished, and the chandelier above it was carefully restored. The room was steeped in history, yet it felt alive again.

He watched her. “You approve, then?”

She forced a light tone. “For someone who spent months covered in dust and arguing with suppliers, you did a decent job.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “C’mon, one more room.

” He led her into the kitchen, and the second she stepped inside, something inside her stopped.

It was stunning. The flagstone floors had been deep cleaned, and the massive hearth was preserved as a focal point.

The cabinetry was rich, dark wood, carefully updated for function while still feeling like it belonged to the house.

A farmhouse sink sat beneath a wide window, and the countertops were smooth, cool stone. It was the kind of kitchen that looked lived in, even though it was brand new. Heather trailed her fingers along the edge of the counter. “It’s beautiful.”

Flynn leaned against the island, arms crossed over his chest. “Aye. She’s bonnie.”

There was something in his tone that made her turn. His gaze was steady, unreadable. Heather’s pulse ticked up. She knew this moment had been coming since the second she walked through the door.

“I’ll start reaching out to my relatives soon,” she said, bracing herself. “I just need to confirm a few things before I make the offer.”

Flynn’s jaw tightened. “You’re really sellin’ it then?”

She exhaled. “Flynn-”

“Just answer the damn question, Heather.”

The kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small. “Yes,” she said, forcing the word out even though it felt wrong. “I told you that from the beginning.”

Flynn let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Aye, ye did.” He shook his head, muttering something in Gaelic under his breath. “And yet, I still believed you might change your mind.”

Heather’s throat tightened. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice was sharp now, rough around the edges. “Expect you to stop running?”

Heat flared her cheeks. “I’m not running.”

Flynn’s laugh was humorless. “You’ve been runnin’ since the day you got here.” He stepped closer, his broad frame crowding the space between them. “Tell me something—if I hadnae brought you that damn coffee that morning, would you have run then too?”

Heather stiffened, but he wasn’t finished.

“Would you have slipped out of that inn before I woke?”

His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Was that the plan, lass? Leave before I could ask you to stay?”

She hadn’t planned it exactly but didn’t know what else to do. How he had looked at her that morning and had been so kind and uncomplicatedly good had terrified her. And he knew. That was the worst part. Flynn had seen it all and seen her.

“I-”

“Say it,” he pushed, stepping closer still. “Say you don’t feel it. Say that night meant nothing—” he didn’t hesitate. “—say you don’t want me!”

She wanted to.

God , she wanted to lie.

To say it didn’t matter. That none of it had changed her. But the truth was right there in her chest, thudding so loud it drowned out every excuse.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I can’t!”

“But you won’t stay.” His voice was quieter now; there was something raw in it. Something unguarded. “Even if I asked you to.”

Her chest ached. “Don’t.”

Flynn exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on hers like she was the only thing anchoring him to this moment. One breath. One beat of silence.

And then—

She moved.

In an instant, his hands were on her, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that burned through every coherent thought. Her mind short-circuited—no logic, no planning, just heat and want and the press of his body against hers.

Flynn’s hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, cradling her gently as his forehead came to rest against hers. Their breaths mingled, sharp and shallow.

“Tell me what you want, Heather,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”