Page 64 of Of Heather and Thistle
Flynn’s Introduction to Heather
The storm had been relentless the whole drive home.
Flynn gripped the steering wheel, watching the rain lash against the windshield as his truck rumbled down the long gravel road toward the cottage. The wipers barely kept up, the beams of his headlights swallowed by the sheets of water pouring from the sky.
By the time he reached the gate, the gravel had turned to mud, the wind howling through the valley. Through the streaked glass, he could just make out the hulking figure standing by the fence—unmoved by the storm, his thick, rust-colored coat drenched.
Angus.
Flynn huffed, shaking his head. “Ye daft beast, get inside somewhere,” he muttered under his breath.
But of course, the Highland cow only blinked at him through the rain, unbothered as ever.
Never mind the perfectly good barn just yards away—Angus had apparently decided to weather the storm like some kind of battle-worn warhorse .
Flynn parked beside the cottage and made a run for it, ducking his head against the wind. The cold hit like a blade, slicing through his damp clothes as the rain soaked him instantly. By the time he reached the porch and shoved the key into the lock, his fingers were stiff with the chill.
Inside, the warmth was immediate, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and aged pine settling around him as he kicked the door shut behind him. The storm still rattled the cottage, the wind whistling through the eaves, but in here, at least, it was quiet.
He moved through the space on autopilot—tossing his soaked jacket over a chair, crouching by the hearth to get the fire going. The flames crackled to life, flickering against the stone walls, casting long shadows over the wooden beams. He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his damp hair.
Long day. Cold night. And now, finally—some peace.
The thought barely settled before the knock came.
Sharp. Unexpected.
Flynn froze.
His brows pulled together as he turned toward the door.
Who the hell—?
No one showed up here unannounced. Not in weather like this.
Another knock, more insistent.
His muscles tensed on instinct, the quiet alertness of years on job sites shifting into place as he strode toward the door. He hesitated only a second before unlocking it and pulling it open.
And there she was.
The storm blurred behind her, but the rain had already done its work, soaking through every inch of the stranger on his doorstep.
Her hair, bright red curls turned dark and wild with water, clung to her face and neck, stray tendrils dripping against her pale skin. And her eyes—emerald green, wide and uncertain—met his with a sharp jolt, something unspoken flickering between them.
Then, of course, there was the matter of what she was—or rather, wasn’t—wearing.
Flynn’s brain short-circuited.
The soaked white fabric clung to her in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Black lace peeked through—delicate and intricate, a sharp contrast to the soggy misery clinging to her.
His gaze barely flicked lower before he forced himself to look away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
Gentleman, Duncan. Right now.
He cleared his throat, shifting his stance.
“Uh…” Brilliant start, Flynn. “Can I help ye?”
She blurted, “Hi.” Her voice was breathless, the word rushed. “My car broke down. It’s raining… obviously.” She gestured vaguely to herself and the downpour.
Flynn blinked. Aye. He could see that.
She let out a half-hysterical huff, shaking her head. “And I stepped in cow poop. Twice. So if you could not judge me right now, and also not actually be a murderer, that’d be great.”
The laugh caught him off guard. He barely managed to bite it back, grinning despite himself.
God help him, she was funny.
And entirely, devastatingly beautiful.
“Come in before ye catch yer death, lass,” he said, stepping aside.
She didn’t hesitate this time, darting past him into the warmth of the cottage. The moment she stopped, her eyes went wide with horror.
Flynn had already noticed. Between the rain, the mud, and, aye—the unmistakable earthy scent of Highland pasture—it was an… aromatic combination.
“Right, well… that’s a smell.”
The beautiful stranger closed her eyes tightly and balled her fists at her sides.
“I know! It’s me… I’m the smell. I’m so sorry!”
Flynn bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright.
“Yer also drippin’ all over my floor,” he said instead, arms crossed in mock exasperation.
“Cool, cool. Add it to the list.” She groaned louder, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, God. Do you have a towel—or a time machine, maybe?”
The exasperation in her voice sent another grin tugging at his mouth.
Flynn turned on his heel and opened an oak cabinet on the other side of the room, grabbing a small towel and tossing it to her.
She caught it, attempting—and failing—to pat herself dry.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Flynn said, heading toward the kitchen. “Ye look like you could use some tea. Or maybe a dram.”
“Tea would be great,” she called out as he left her standing in the ever-growing puddle of dirty water in his living room.
He quickly poured her a cup of Yorkshire Tea, taking a wild guess on her milk and sugar preferences.
When Flynn returned to the living room, he stifled a full-blown laugh when he saw her trying to cover her exposed, drenched figure behind the small hand towel he’d given her minutes before.
“Here,” Flynn said, holding out the mug. “And, uh… if yer needin’ somethin’ to change into, I might have somethin’ that’ll fit.”
His fingers brushed hers as he passed the steaming cup. The brief contact sent a pulse up his arm, and an unwelcome awareness curled through him.
“Thanks. Though, unless you happen to have a full set of dry clothes for a random stranger, I’ll probably end up in, like, one of your t-shirts and—”
“—probably… uhh… safer? …than what ye’ve got on now,” Flynn interrupted, his lips twitching with amusement.
The young woman groaned, burying her face once more in the now-soaked towel.
“This is officially the worst day of my life.”
Flynn crossed his arms, amused. “Could’ve been worse.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “How?”
He pretended to think. “The cows could’ve chased ye.”
The absolute horror that crossed her face nearly undid him.
“That was an option?!”
Now outright laughing, Flynn shook his head. “Aye, since ye decided to traipse through the pasture. But dinnae fash, lass. Ye survived. And now ye’ve got a story to tell.”
She sighed dramatically. “Yeah, a story about how I showed up half-naked and smelling like shit at some stranger’s house,” she muttered, taking a sip of tea. “Real inspirational. ”
“Och, at least I’m a friendly stranger,” Flynn replied, winking at her this time.
She laughed.
And it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
And just like that, something shifted.
Flynn didn’t have a name for it—not yet.
But as he watched her, grinning despite everything, shaking out those wild curls, emerald eyes flickering with reluctant amusement— one look, one laugh… and that was it.
Flynn Duncan never stood a chance.