Page 55 of Of Heather and Thistle

M oving the rest of the furniture back into Glenoran was an exercise in controlled disaster. “You didn’t even measure the doorway before dragging this thing upstairs?” Heather accused, hands on her hips, watching Flynn grunt as he wedged the heavy dresser at an awkward angle.

“Aye, well, I thought it would fit.”

“You thought?” She echoed, lifting a brow like he’d personally offended her ancestors.

“Would ye rather I leave it downstairs?”

Heather huffed, stepping in to push alongside him. The dresser inched forward, but not without consequences—Flynn’s hand slipped, catching her waist, and suddenly, they were too close in the tight hallway.

His breath fanned against her cheek.

Heather swallowed. “You’re in my space.”

“Aye,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “And I like it that way.”

Her stomach flipped. “Are we moving furniture here or making out against it?”

“Why cannae it be both?”

Heather gave him a playful shove, but he caught her wrists, pinning them gently above her head, his body flush with hers. “Still want that dresser moved?” he whispered—then kissed her, hard and quick, like he couldn’t help himself.

Her breath hitched.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he let go and went back to maneuvering the dresser—like they hadn’t just gotten hot in that hallway.

By the time they finished, the house felt different—fuller. No longer just an abandoned estate, but a home. Heather stood in the center of the sitting room, hands on her hips, surveying their work. “Not bad, Duncan.”

Standing behind her, Flynn wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Aye, well. Would’ve been faster if someone hadnae kept distracting me.”

She snorted. “Oh, please. You were the one doing the cornering.”

“Deny it all you want, lass. But I saw the way ye looked at me lifting that sofa. Ye were practically swooning.”

Heather let out a very undignified laugh, but then Flynn turned her in his arms, brushing a thumb across her cheek.

His expression softened. “Ye know, mo chridhe … it’s okay to want this. All of it.”

Heather’s breath caught.

This.

This house. This place. This man .

Her heart ached with its weight. She knew what he meant. He wasn’t talking about Glenoran.

He was talking about them.

She hesitated; the words stuck in her throat.

Flynn’s blue eyes searched hers. He wasn’t asking her to decide now; he was asking her to see it—to see this as a choice she could make.

Heather exhaled and pressed a slow, lingering kiss on his lips. The rest could wait. But this?

This, she was holding onto with both hands.