Page 109 of Of Heather and Thistle
I’ll be there in 10.
She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
Of course, he was coming over.
Flynn didn’t knock. He just stepped inside, a bag of tools and paint supplies slung over one shoulder. His hair was damp from the summer rain, and his flannel rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular, work-roughened forearms. He set the bag down with a thud.
“Getting awfully comfortable just walking in here, aren’t you?” Heather remarked, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Flynn smirked, unbothered. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.”He glanced around. “House looks great. Existential crisis penciled in for later?”
Heather groaned. “Shut up.”
Flynn chuckled, nudging the bag toward her. “Thought you might need a second opinion on the library. You were still second-guessing that green, weren’t you?”
Heather crossed her arms. “I was confident about it until you walked in here with backup supplies.”
Flynn grinned. “Just covering my bases.”
Heather sighed but led him toward the library anyway. The deep green walls looked rich and warm in the afternoon light, giving the space a cozy, old-world feel. But standing here now, she wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know,” She chewed her lip, glancing at the far wall. ‘I don’t know… Is it too much?”
Flynn tilted his head, studying it. “Nah. It suits the place.” He shot her a sideways glance. “You just have commitment issues.”
Heather gave him a light shove. “Excuse me?”
Flynn only grinned wider. “Ye repainted the sitting room twice. And I recall a full-on spiral over the kitchen tile.”
Heather groaned. “Why do you remember everything?”
“Because I like giving you a hard time,” he said. Then, softer, “But also because I’ve spent months watching ye build this place back up.”
Heather swallowed, his words hitting a little too close.
Flynn was observing her, but he didn’t push. Instead, he turned toward the paint cans. “Alright, let’s settle this. If we repaint, I pick the color.”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is if I win.” Flynn reached for one of the paint rollers,giving her a devilish grin. “We could always do a test run. See what happens.”
Heather recognized the challenge in his expression, which was too late.
He struck first, dragging a line of green across her bare arm.
Heather gasped. “Flynn!”
“Whoops,” he said, grinning like the devil himself.
Heather snatched up a paintbrush, launching a counterattack. The next thing she knew, they were in an all-out paint war—laughing, dodging, and smearing green streaks across each other like a pair of children.
Paint dripped from her brush, breathless laughter still on her lips—until Flynn caught her wrist mid-swipe, freezing her in place.
Heather’s breath hitched.
They were close now—too close. His fingers were still curled around her wrist, his other hand resting lightly on her waist. There was paint on his cheek and a smudge on his jaw, yet he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.
The laughter between them faded into something quieter.
