Page 17 of Of Heather and Thistle
His comment sent a self-conscious rush of heat to her cheeks, and she quickly glanced at the menu, pretending to study it. The rich aromas of tomato-basil sauce and fresh bread wafted through the air, making her stomach growl quietly.
A waiter appeared, pouring water into their glasses and offering a practiced smile.
“Can I get you started with some wine?”
Sam glanced at her, his brows lifting in question: “Red or white?”
“Red,” Heather answered, her voice more confident than she expected. “Something dry.”
Sam nodded at the waiter. “Abottle of Chianti, please.”
As the waiter disappeared, Heather looked around again at the leather banquettes, the ornate mirrors, the couples leaning close over their meals. It felt like a different world, far removed from the bookstore and her quiet life in Millhaven.
“So,” Sam said, breaking the silence. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Heather raised an eyebrow. “That’s a vague request.”
He leaned back, his grin playful. “Okay, fine. Let’s narrow it down. What’s something you love that you’re embarrassed to admit?”
She thought about it, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Fine. I have a thing for those cheesy fantasy romance novels. You know, the ones with the overly-dramatic titles and shirtless men on the cover?”
Sam’s laughter was warm and unrestrained, drawing a nearby couple’s attention from the next table over.
“That’s not embarrassing,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s hilarious but not embarrassing. Let me guess: you’re secretly hoping to be swept off your feet by a brooding warrior prince?”
Heather rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile from spreading. “Maybe! Who wouldn’t want that?”
Their wine arrived, and Sam poured it for them before raising his glass. “To brooding warrior princes,” he teased, his dark eyes twinkling.
Heather clinked her glass against his, unable to suppress a laugh.
“And to people who don’t judge cheesy books.”
As the evening unfolded, Heather relaxed, the initial nervousness fading away. The conversation flowed easily from there, Sam’s charm and wit disarming her at everyturn. She laughed more than she had in weeks, her shoulders relaxing as he told her stories about his travels to Paris and his disastrous attempts at making coq au vin.
They shared plates of bruschetta and perfectly cooked pasta, trading stories about childhood mischief and awkward moments from college. Sam had a way of pulling her out of her shell—his wit and charm balancing out her quieter nature.
By the time dessert arrived, a shared tiramisu served on a delicate glass plate, she realized she hadn’t thought about her father, the letter, or the estate for the entire evening.
Sam caught her staring at him as he took a bite of the dessert, his fork pausing midair. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, looking away.
“No, seriously,” he pressed, his tone teasing but soft. “What were you thinking?”
Heather hesitated, then decided to take a chance. “I was just thinking… this is the first time in a while that I’ve felt like myself.”
Sam’s expression softened, and he set down his fork, leaning across the table slightly. “Well, for what it’s worth, I like you. The real you, no matter what that looks like.”
Her chest tightened at his words, and she didn’t know what to say momentarily. So she just smiled, lifting her glass in silent acknowledgment.
As they stepped out into the brisk night, the cool air kissed her flushed cheeks, but it did little to calm the warmth simmering beneath her skin. The gentle buzz of the city surrounded them—the soft roar of distant cars and the occasional conversations of passersby. But Heather was hyper-aware of the man walking beside her. The heat ofhis presence beside her, the casual brush of his arm against hers, sent a quiet thrill through her as they walked to the car.
Sam glanced at her, his chocolate-brown eyes gleaming under the soft glow of the street lamps. “You’re quiet. You okay?”
Heather tucked a strand of curly red hair behind her ear, her freckled cheeks burning under his gaze as they walked.
“Just… thinking,” she said, her voice soft.
