Page 107 of Of Heather and Thistle
And suddenly, it wasn’t empty at all. The furniture was back—all of it. The antique vanity stood by the window, its surface polished to a soft gleam. The iron twin bed frame was dressed in fresh linens, the same delicate cream and blue pattern she remembered from her arrival. And the quilt. Her mom’s pastel, handmade quilt lay proudly across the mattress. The armchair, the bookshelves, even the little wooden jewelry box tucked away in storage—all restored, all placed precisely as they had been.
Heather’s hands flew to her mouth.
“Flynn,” she whispered, stepping inside. Her legs felt unsteady, as if the moment’s weight might knock her over. “You—when did you do all this?”
“Finished it yesterday,” He said, watching her intently. “I figured you’d want to see it when your heart could handle it.”
Her vision blurred. She reached out, trailing her fingers along the vanity and then the edge of the bed. It was as if she were stepping into the past—like walking into a memoryshe’d never been allowed to keep.
“She used to sit here,” she murmured, running a hand over the vanity stool. “Brush her hair…” She could almost hear the soft bristle of the brush, the quiet creak of the stool, the way her mother would hum under her breath—half lullaby, half prayer.
Flynn didn’t say anything; they just gave her the space to take it in. Heather pressed a hand to her chest to steady the ache beneath her ribs.
It would be easy to stay. To curl up in this house, in this history, in the warmth Flynn had built for her here.
But what would staying mean? Would she feel trapped between two worlds —Millhaven and here —never fully belonging to either? She swallowed hard and turned back to Flynn. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”
His expression softened. “Ye dinnae have to thank me,mo chridhe.”
She stepped closer, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Maybe I just want to,” she said.
Flynn exhaled sharply, as if she’d knocked the breath out of him. She closed the distance between them and kissed him—slow this time, unhurried. A promise, not a demand. Heather sighed into it, letting herself sink—just for now.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back and smirked. “C’mon, lass. We’ve got furniture to move.”
Chapter 31
Moving the rest of the furniture back into Glenoran was an exercise in controlled disaster. “You didn’t even measure the doorway before dragging this thing upstairs?” Heather accused, hands on her hips, watching Flynn grunt as he wedged the heavy dresser at an awkward angle.
“Aye, well, I thought it would fit.”
“You thought?” She echoed, lifting a brow like he’d personally offended her ancestors.
“Would ye rather I leave it downstairs?”
Heather huffed, stepping in to push alongside him. The dresser inched forward, but not without consequences—Flynn’s hand slipped, catching her waist, and suddenly, they were too close in the tight hallway.
His breath fanned against her cheek.
Heather swallowed. “You’re in my space.”
“Aye,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “And I like it thatway.”
Her stomach flipped. “Are we moving furniture here or making out against it?”
“Why cannae it be both?”
Heather gave him a playful shove, but he caught her wrists, pinning them gently above her head, his body flush with hers. “Still want that dresser moved?” he whispered—then kissed her, hard and quick, like he couldn’t help himself.
Her breath hitched.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he let go and went back to maneuvering the dresser—like they hadn’t just gotten hot in that hallway.
By the time they finished, the house felt different—fuller. No longer just an abandoned estate, but a home. Heather stood in the center of the sitting room, hands on her hips, surveying their work. “Not bad, Duncan.”
Standing behind her, Flynn wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Aye, well. Would’ve been faster if someone hadnae kept distracting me.”
She snorted. “Oh, please. You were the one doing the cornering.”
