Page 101 of Of Heather and Thistle
“I-”
“Say it,” he pushed, stepping closer still. “Say you don’t feel it. Say that night meant nothing—” he didn’t hesitate. “—say you don’t want me!”
She wanted to.
God, she wanted to lie.
To say it didn’t matter. That none of it had changed her. But the truth was right there in her chest, thudding so loud it drowned out every excuse.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I can’t!”
“But you won’t stay.” His voice was quieter now; there wassomething raw in it. Something unguarded. “Even if I asked you to.”
Her chest ached. “Don’t.”
Flynn exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on hers like she was the only thing anchoring him to this moment. One breath. One beat of silence.
And then—
She moved.
In an instant, his hands were on her, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that burned through every coherent thought. Her mind short-circuited—no logic, no planning, just heat and want and the press of his body against hers.
Flynn’s hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, cradling her gently as his forehead came to rest against hers. Their breaths mingled, sharp and shallow.
“Tell me what you want, Heather,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears, wild and relentless. His grip was steady—grounding—his fingertips hot against her skin, holding her in place when everything else felt like it was unraveling. She could feel the weight of his breath, the heat of his body, the raw emotion burning in his storm-blue eyes. Frustration. Longing. Something deeper and more dangerous.
Heather’s fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. “Flynn—”
The rest caught in her throat. The words felt too big, too exposed.
Because what could she say? That she was terrified of how easily he fit into the cracks of her? That she’d spent her whole life staying guarded—and he made her want to throw everywall down? That wanting him didn’t feel like a choice but a freefall she couldn’t stop?
She was afraid of how badly she wanted this.
Afraid of what it would mean if she stayed.
Even more afraid of what it would mean if she left.
Because leaving would be safer. Cleaner. Easier to explain.
But Flynn Duncan didn’t make her feel safe.
He made her feelalive.
And that—thatwas the scariest part of all.
Because being alive meant feeling everything.
The ache of grief. The risk of hope.
The terrifying possibility that this—whatever this was—
might actually bereal.
“I—”
