Page 8 of Of Heather and Thistle

“So, how’ve you been? I came by a few days ago, and when I saw you weren’t here, I left.”

Heather’s heart raced in her chest. Was he paying that much attention to her?

“Oh, um, yeah…,” she said, fumbling for the right words. “Just… life stuff, you know. It’s been a weird couple of weeks.”

Sam studied her for a moment, his expression softening. “Yeah? Anything you want to talk about?”

Heather shook her head quickly. “No, nothing serious. Just… busy.”

From behind the counter, there was a sudden thud —then a cascade of thunks as a whole stack of books hit the floor. Heather turned just in time to see Mark standing there, frozen, hands half-raised like he’d been caught mid-eavesdrop.

“Sorry,” he blurted, bending down to scoop up the fallen books. “Slipped.”

Heather narrowed her eyes, but Mark refused to meet them, his entire focus locked on restacking the books at record speed. Heather let out a slow breath before turning back to Sam, pretending like that hadn’t just happened.

Sam arched a brow, glancing between them with clear amusement. “You good over there, Mark?”

“Peachy,” Mark muttered, shoving the last book into place. “Please, continue.”

Sam bit back a smirk but refocused on Heather, his voice easy but his gaze steady. “Well, maybe you could use a break from all that. I was thinking… this new Italian place just opened up downtown. How about dinner? My treat.”

Heather blinked, sure she’d misheard him. “Dinner?” she echoed, startled.

“Yeah,” he said, his grin turning slightly teasing.

“The thing where two people sit down, eat food, and have a conversation?” she asked.

“You’ve heard of it right?” he questioned.

“Right… No, yeah… I mean… I know what dinner is…” She winced at herself and thought, Oh my God, did I really just clarify the definition of dinner for him?

Sam chuckled, sliding his card across the counter.

“Good to know.”

She let out a nervous laugh, her cheeks burning.

“I… yeah, of course. I didn’t think—”

She stopped herself, realizing that she was about to say something self-deprecating .

“I mean, that sounds… nice.”

“ Nice ?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I was going for unforgettable, but I’ll take nice for now.”

Heather couldn’t help but smile, her nerves settling just a little under his easy charm. “Okay,” she said, feeling a rush of courage she hadn’t expected. “Dinner sounds great.”

Sam straightened, his grin widening. “Great. Tomorrow night, then? I’ll pick you up at seven?”

She nodded, her pulse racing. “Seven works.”

“Perfect.” He slid the book off the counter and tucked it under his arm. “Looking forward to it.”

With one last dazzling smile, he turned and walked out, leaving Heather standing behind the counter, her heart hammering in her chest and a stupid grin on her face.

The door jingled behind him.

She stood frozen, cheeks flushed and heart hammering, like she might float right off the ground. And then she heard it— a very distinct throat-clearing noise.

She turned slowly to see Mark peeking out from behind a shelf of mystery novels, his arms crossed and an enormous grin plastered across his face.

“So…,” he said, drawing out the word like a seasoned interrogator, “Italian food, huh? Fancy.”

Heather groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Mark! Seriously?”

“I mean, I was just over here trying to alphabetize Agatha Christie, but the conversation was… impossible to ignore. Riveting, really.”

He leaned casually against the shelf, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Did I hear correctly that Sam Ashford… Sam Ashford! …asked you on a date? …At an Italian restaurant? …Is he bringing roses, too, or will he be arriving on horseback?”

Heather glared at him, though the corners of her mouth twitched and she started to smile. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t!” he sighed dramatically, clutching an imaginary bouquet to his chest.

Then, with an exaggerated gasp, his eyes widened.

“Wait! Does this make you Elizabeth Bennet? Because he is absolutely giving broody-but-besotted Mr. Darcy right now.”

“That’s the last time I let you watch Pride and Prejudice with Ivy.”

“Oh, please,” Mark scoffed. “Like I needed Ivy to educate me on the finer points of regency romance. Now tell me: will you be staring wistfully across the rain-soaked moors before declaring your undying love, or should I lower my expectations?”

“Mark!” Heather hissed, glancing nervously toward the door. “Keep your voice down! What if he hears you?”

He raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

“What, through the soundproof windows? Relax, Heather. Your dignity is safe—well…

Relatively.”

He shrugged.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the nervous laugh that bubbled up.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Mark grinned. “Of course! But now I’ve got front-row seats to what’s shaping up to be the most interesting thing that’s happened in this bookstore in years. Don’t keep me waiting for updates, okay? I want a full play-by-play by Monday. ”

Heather shook her head, grabbing the nearest book and smacking him lightly on the arm.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you are going to have the time of your life,” he said, pointing a finger at her as he retreated to the counter. “Don’t mess this up, Heather. The fate of my entertainment depends on it!”

Heather groaned, but as she turned back to her work, she couldn’t stop the small, giddy smile on her face.