Page 110 of Of Heather and Thistle
Heather swallowed hard, her pulse suddenly thrumming in her ears. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she suddenly couldn’t remember what they’d been arguing about.
Flynn didn’t move, his eyes locked on hers. “Still doubting the green?”
Heather exhaled a shaky breath. “It’s growing on me.” It wasn’t just the color. It was what it meant—fresh start, rootedness, growth. Something new,and hers.
Flynn’s grin softened into something more thoughtful. “Yeah. Me too.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then, before the tension could settle too deep, Flynn released her wrist and cleared his throat, stepping back. “We should probably clean up before you get paint in your hair.”
Heather blinked, trying to ground herself. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t already.”
Flynn laughed, but the charged moment lingered between them.
Later, Heather stood in the library, arms crossed, as she took in the freshly painted walls.
Flynn came up beside her. “You sure this is the one?”
Heather smiled softly.
For the first time in a long time, she was sure of something.
“Yeah,” she said. “I think this is it.”
Flynn nudged her shoulder. “About time.”
Heather rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her chest she couldn’t deny.
Maybe, just maybe, she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Chapter 33
The paintbrushes were abandoned.
Heather let out an exhausted sigh, swiping at the streak of deep green that had somehow ended up on her cheek. Standing beside her, Flynn looked just as wrecked—his shirt streaked with smudges of paint, his hands stained from where he’d rolled fresh coats over the library walls.
“You look like a Jackson Pollock painting,” she teased—though she knew she wasn’t any better. Flynn smirked, lifting a brow as he wiped a paint streak down his forearm. “Aye, and you don’t?” Heather rolled her eyes, turning toward the sink to wash her hands, but Flynn’s voice stopped her.“Y’know, there’s a much better way to clean up.”
She turned back, catching the way his gaze darkened ever so slightly. Her pulse kicked up a notch as she swallowed. “Are you suggesting—”
Flynn stepped closer, tilting his head, voice low and deliberate. “I’m suggestin’ we stop wasting time scrubbingpaint off in separate places when there’s a perfectly good shower upstairs.”
Heather blushed at his bold suggestion. He was giving her an out. He always did. If she wanted to laugh it off, if she wanted to step away, he’d let her. But she didn’t want to step away. She wanted to step closer.
So she did.
Flynn didn’t move at first; he just waited, his patience like gravity pulling her in without a single touch. Heather let out a slow breath, searching his face. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The smirk he gave her was devastating. She barely had time to react before his fingers curled around her wrist, tugging her gently but insistently toward the stairs. The bathroom was filled with steam before they even stepped inside. The old pipes rattled slightly as warm, inviting water poured from the shower head. Heather stood by the sink, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She could feel Flynn behind her, his presence like heat against her skin. He peeled off his shirt in one smooth motion. Heather didn’t mean to stare… but she did.
His muscles flexed with every movement at the broad span of his chest. His skin was streaked with paint—deep green across his collarbone and a smear along his ribs. She swallowed hard, fingers twitching at her sides. Flynn caught her staring. Of course, he did. A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. “Your turn, lass.” Heather’s breath caught. She could back out. She could laugh it off. Or—
She reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head. The air between them thickened. Flynn’s gaze dropped. Not in a way that felt greedy or rushed, but in a way thatdevoured.Like he wanted to memorize every inchof her—every freckle, every curve.
For so long, Heather had hated what she saw in the mirror. She wasn’t blind—she knew she had her mother’s emerald eyes, her mother’s delicate features, her mother’s curls that always refused to be tamed. But where her mother had been ethereal, stunning—a fairy out of a dream—Heather had spent years feeling like a poor imitation.
A shadow.
