Page 10 of Of Heather and Thistle
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 styledjust sohad 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 poetrydramatically 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 Heatherwas 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?”
