Page 44 of Of Heather and Thistle
Then she looked to her right. A gravel road.
Heather froze, blinking against the rain. An actual, proper road leading straight to the cottage. A perfectly walkable, cow-shit-free road.
Her stomach dropped. She had hopped fences, trudged through a muddy pasture, and stepped inGod-knows-what, all while there had been a clear, easy path the entire time.
She let out a slow, disbelieving breath.
Of course.
Because of course she had to take the hard way.
With one last, exhausted sigh, Heather turned away from the road sheshouldhave taken and trudged toward the front door, cold, drenched, and thoroughly unimpressed with herself.
She banged on it harder than she intended, her knuckles slick with rain.
“Hello?” she called, shivering as water dripped from her hair into her eyes.
Her soaked linen outfit clung to her like a second skin, and she became painfully aware of just how see-through it had become. Her new black lace bra and matching panties—lovely in the boutique, now mortifying in real life—were on full display, and her freezing-cold nipples were clearly outlined against the fabric.
The door swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood there, his dark hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. His gray t-shirt clung to his chest, making it hard not to notice how ridiculously fit he was. His stormy blue eyes widened in surprise, and his gaze darted—unsuccessfully—to anywhere but her soaked figure.
“Uh…” He cleared his throat, his Scottish accent thick and startled. “Can I help ye?”
Heather blinked up at him, raindrops clinging to her lashes.
“Hi,” she managed, her voice slightly breathless. “My car broke down. It’s raining… Obviously.” She gestured vaguely to herself and the storm, very aware that she looked like a drowned rat in lingerie.
The man arched an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin. “Aye, I can see that.”
“And,” she continued, her cheeks burning, “I stepped in cow poop. Twice. So if you could… not judge me right now, and also not actually be a murderer, that’d be great.”
That did it—he laughed softly and shook his head. “Come in before ye catch yer death, lass.”
Heather hesitated, glancing back toward the field. The cows were still watching her. “Okay, yeah,” she said quickly, stepping inside and trying to preserve what little dignity she had left. But as she stepped inside, she immediately regretted it. The cozy warmth of the cottage hit her like a tidal wave, and the combination of cow shit, rain, and wet linen created a genuinely unique, horrifying aroma that she was sure filled the entire room.
The man stepped back, politely wrinkling his nose. “Right, well… that’s a smell.”
Heather closed her eyes, wishing the floor would swallow her whole. “I know! It’s me… I’m the smell. I’m so sorry!”
He crossed his arms, his biceps flexing in a way that was frankly distracting. “Yer also drippin’ all over my floor.”
“Cool, cool. Add it to the list.” She flicked her gaze down, realizing she was standing in a rapidly expanding puddle of water, her sneakers sloshing with ungodly brown liquid withevery movement.
“Oh, God. Do you have a towel—or a time machine, maybe?”
The man bit back a laugh and crossed the room to a wooden cabinet by the window, pulling out a towel. He tossed it to her, and she caught it awkwardly, nearly dropping it in her haste to wipe her face.
“Thank you,” she muttered, attempting to pat herself dry but only managing to smear water around.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. “Ye look like you could use some tea. Or maybe a dram.”
“Tea would be great,” Heather called after him.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the coat rack and winced. Her makeup was wrecked, her underwear on full display in the light.
Fabulous.
She grabbed the towel again, holding it strategically in front of her, and then let out a breath, shoving her drenched hair out of her face. “Fantastic. I may as well be wearing cling film,” she muttered.
