Page 7 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he following day, Heather sat at her usual table in the corner of the coffee shop, staring at the photograph of Glenoran House on the table.

Ivy sat across from her, stirring sugar into her latte with exaggerated focus, even for her.

“You’re serious,” Ivy said finally, glancing up, her perfectly arched brow lifting in disbelief. “This is real? An estate in Scotland? A trust fund? You’re not messing with me?”

Heather smiled faintly, a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling under the surface. “It’s real,” she said, sliding the photograph across the table toward her. “This is the house. It belonged to my mom’s family. Apparently, it’s been waiting for me all this time.”

Ivy picked up the photo and studied it, her lips parting in awe. “Oh my God,” she said dramatically. “This is… Heather, this is like something out of a movie. Look at this place! It’s a freaking castle!”

“It’s not a castle,” Heather said, though she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride at Ivy’s reaction. “It’s a historic estate. And it’s falling apart, probably. Who knows what kind of shape it’s in after all these years.”

“Who cares?” Ivy shot back, her dark eyes sparkling as she returned the photo. “It’s gorgeous. And it’s yours. Do you even realize what this means? You’re, like, secretly royalty or something.”

Heather laughed, shaking her head. “Hardly. I’m still me—just… me, with a house in another country that I didn’t know existed.”

Ivy leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand and giving Heather an appraising look. “So, what are you going to do? You’re not seriously just going to sit on this, are you?”

Heather hesitated, the weight of the question settling over her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, I want to go. I need to see it and figure out what’s there.

But… it feels huge, you know? Like, I’m not the kind of person who picks up and flies across the world to claim some mysterious family estate. ”

Ivy rolled her eyes. “Heather, you’ve spent your whole life thinking you’re not the kind of person who does big, exciting things. Maybe it’s time to prove yourself wrong. Or at least—” she smirked, “—prove to me that you’re not the one standing in your own way.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is simple,” Ivy said, tilting her head. “Unless you make it complicated. Like you always do.”

She sighed, then continued as she picked up the photo and showed it to Heather.

“Don’t you think this is what your mom would’ve wanted?”

Heather swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the photograph.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I think she would.”

She gently took the photograph from Ivy’s hands, her fingers curled around it like it might slip right through them.

An entire estate was hers? It should have felt thrilling, but a quiet panic lodged in her ribs.

She had a steady job at the bookstore and a best friend who felt like family.

She’d spent so much of her life craving stability—was she really about to upend everything?

* * *

An hour later, Heather walked into Evergreen Books, the cozy bookstore where she worked. The bell above the door jingled softly as she stepped inside, and the familiar scent of old paper and rich wood greeted her. Her work routine offered comfort, a reprieve from the chaos in her mind.

She grabbed the books by their spines and reached to shelve them as her coworker, Mark, carried them to her from a new box behind the counter. The titles in the stack sparked a slight sense of stability— Wuthering Heights, The Catcher in the Rye, A Tale of Two Cities —familiar, reliable stories.

Mark had been one of the first people Heather had met when she and Ivy moved to Millhaven after college. Leaving the city had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done when she walked away from the only life she’d known, from the grip of her father’s expectations.

On Heather’s first day at work, Mark had been behind the counter, sorting through a mountain of returns, pushing up the sleeves of his well-worn cardigan.

His thick, chestnut-brown hair, always styled just so had slipped into his eyes, and he had huffed dramatically, shoving it back with an exaggerated flair.

She’d been too shy to say much at first, but Mark wasn’t the kind of person who let awkward silence linger.

He’d cracked some self-deprecating joke about his inability to alphabetize under pressure, and she’d laughed, despite herself.

Over time, they’d become more than just coworkers. Mark had a way of quietly stepping into her corner—much like Ivy—though his approach was softer, less sharp-edged. He had a dry sense of humor and an easy smile. He was the kind of person who could coax her out of her head without pushing too hard.

It didn’t take long for Heather to see Mark and Ivy click instantly.

Ivy had shown up at the bookstore one day, with her blonde hair and her magnetic energy filling the space as she loudly declared her love for the smell of books.

Unfazed, Mark matched her wit-for-wit, and before Heather knew it, the two of them were bantering like old friends.

The three of them had fallen into an easy rhythm—Heather: the quiet observer, Ivy: the whirlwind, and Mark: the calm in the storm.

As she sorted through the stack of books, Mark leaned against the counter, watching her with a knowing smile.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” he said, gentle but matter-of-fact, like he already knew the answer.

Heather sighed, pressing her hands against the stack of books to steady herself.

“Not really,” she said.

Mark didn’t ask why—he didn’t need to. Instead, he just nodded, his voice light but full of quiet understanding.

“Well, if you need a distraction, I can always read poetry dramatically until you laugh.”

Heather snorted softly, shaking her head. “Thanks, Marky . I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mark rolled his eyes but grinned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” she said, smirking.

Ivy had jokingly called him Marky-Mark after one too many margaritas a few months ago, and Heather had shortened it out of pure laziness.

He pretended to hate it, but she knew better.

He secretly loved a nickname, even a ridiculous one.

For now, just being here with the books and the quiet hum of the store and a friend who didn’t need her to explain everything was enough.

She gave him a small smile. “Nothing like shelving classics to ground you, huh?”

He chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron. “Exactly. Customers may come and go, and trends rise and fall, but these books? They’re always here. Comforting, don’t you think?”

Heather nodded as he handed her an armful and said, “These go in fiction.” Balancing the stack carefully, she walked to the fiction section alone.

This was what she needed right now. The quiet hum of the shop.

The musty smell of old pages. The rhythmic routine of shelving.

All of it felt like a balm for her frayed nerves.

As she worked, her mind wandered. It wasn’t lost on her how much she relied on her routines: bantering with Mark, chatting with Ivy, curling up with Byrdie, and knowing what to expect each day.

These were the constants that kept her steady through moments of chaos.

And now, with Glenoran House waiting for her decision, everything felt… precarious .

Unless you make it complicated. Like you always do.

Ivy’s words surfaced again, unshakable. Heather exhaled sharply, pushing them down, but the panic clung to her ribs again, unwanted and heavy as she scowled. Was that what she did? Made things harder than they needed to be? Maybe Ivy was right.

She pulled a book off the shelf at random, running her fingers over the embossed title and fighting back tears. The words blurred for a moment before coming into focus— Sense and Sensibility . She almost laughed at the title. Maybe she really was over-complicating things.

“Hey, Heth?” Mark’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She turned to see him leaning over the counter, a bemused look on his face. “You’ve got company.”

Heather didn’t bother looking up as she re-shelved the books. Her lunch hour neared, her mind already halfway out the door. She was distracted by thoughts of Glenoran House and the decisions she had to make.

“…Heather?”

The voice sent a jolt through her chest before she could place it.

Deep, warm, familiar. She turned, her fingers tightening around the stack of books she was holding.

Sam Ashford. Her stomach dropped at the sound of that deep, smooth baritone with just enough warmth to make her chest tighten.

Slowly, she turned to see Sam standing near the front counter, his smile as easy and confident as ever.

Sam Ashford was, without a doubt, the most attractive man Heather had ever seen.

Tall and broad-shouldered with perpetually perfectly-tousled brown hair and hazel eyes that seemed to glint with mischief, he turned heads wherever he went.

He was also a regular at the bookstore - a fact Heather was painfully aware of.

“Oh, hey…,” she said, her voice coming out more breathless than she intended. She fumbled with the books in her hands, trying to appear casual but failing miserably. Sam’s grin widened as he watched her. “Are you hiding back there all day, or will you come to say hi?”

Heather flushed and quickly set the books down on the nearest shelf. She walked toward him, smoothing her apron nervously. “Sorry. I was just putting some new books on the shelf. What brings you in today?”

He held up a book—a worn copy of The Great Gatsby. “Needed a replacement. My old one’s fallen apart from too many rereads. I figured I’d come here instead of ordering it online. Support local business and all that.”

“Very noble of you,” she said, smiling as she rang him up.

“What can I say? I’m a man of principle.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter.