Page 19 of Of Heather and Thistle
When they arrived, Sam pulled into the driveway of a modern townhouse, sleek and understated, much like him. He parked and turned to her, his gaze soft but intense. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
Heather smiled, trying to steady her breathing as she exited the car. The air was crisp, and she wrapped her arms around herself as he unlocked the front door and gestured her inside.
The interior was warm and inviting, with dark wood floors, leather furniture, and shelves lined with books and records. A low fire crackled in the living room, casting a golden glow.
“Wow,” she said, slipping off her heels and looking around. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
Sam raised an eyebrow as he hung up his coat. “What were you expecting? Beer cans and a beanbag chair?”
Heather laughed. “No, I mean, I knew you had good taste. I couldn’t picture it.”
He smirked, stepping closer. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Make yourself comfortable—I’ll grab us something to drink.”
She wandered into the living room, her fingers grazing the spines of the books on his shelf. It felt strange to be here, in his space, surrounded by pieces of his life. When he returned, holding two glasses of sweet port wine, she sat on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her a glass before sitting beside her, close enough that their knees brushed.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. The smooth undertones of sweet summer berries and richly-dark chocolate coated her tongue, warming her from the inside out.
Sam leaned back, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch, his easy confidence drawing her in. He gave her an amused smile, tilting his head.
“So… what’s your favorite book? I’d imagine a girl who spends her life surrounded by stories has to have one she’s devoted to. Let me guess—Brontë? Austen? Maybe a little Dickens? Or one of those grocery store romances you like so much?” He gestured toward his bookshelf, the teasing lilt in his voice unmistakable.
Heather chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Honestly, Iwouldn’t say I’m devoted to literature. I enjoy it, sure. But I don’t think I’m really devoted to anything.”
Sam’s grin faltered slightly, replaced by something more curious, almost tender. “Nothing? Not even one thing?”
She hesitated, her fingers brushing the stem of her wineglass. “It’s not that I don’t care about things—I do. It’s just…” She paused, searching for the right words. “… devotion requires freedom—time… space… room to breathe. And for so long, my life has been about survival. Knowing when to step back, when to keep my head down, when to let things go. You learn quickly not to hold on too tightly when leaving is easier than being left behind. I’ve never had the luxury of giving myself over to something completely.”
Sam’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression thoughtful as he studied her.
“That sounds like a heavy way to live.”
Heather offered a slight, self-conscious shrug.
“It’s all I’ve ever known, really. But now, with this whole Scotland thing…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head, brushing away the thought. “…maybe things are changing. I don’t know.”
Sam leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee. “If you could pick one thing to devote yourself to—one thing that’s just for you—what would it be?”
Heather blinked at the profound question, caught off guard.
“I… I’m not sure. I’ve never thought about it.”
She glanced down, a faint smile tugging at her lips to pull the conversation somewhere lighter. “But if we’re talking books, Anne of Green Gables is probably the closest thing I have to a favorite.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Anne of Green Gables?That’s not what I expected.”
She laughed, the sound lighter than she felt.
“I read it when I was a kid. I think I fell in love with Anne because she saw the world differently, you know? She made things brighter, even when they were hard. She wasn’t afraid to dream.”
Sam smiled, his voice softer now. “Sounds like she left an impression.”
Heather shrugged, her cheeks warming at the intimacy of the moment. “I think I wanted to be like her. Brave, hopeful… open to life, even when it doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re more like her than you think,” Sam said, his tone genuine.
Heather’s eyes widened slightly. “I don’t know about that.”
