Page 46 of Of Heather and Thistle
She peeled off her soaked linen outfit, grimacing at the state of it, and draped it over the bathtub’s edge. The mud-streaked sneakers, now reeking of rain and cow pasture, were set near the front door—out of the way but impossible to ignore. Slipping into the soft sweatpants and oversized flannel, sheinhaled the faint scent of cedar and soap. The clothes hung loosely on her, but after the night she’d had, their warmth felt like a small mercy.
When she emerged, fresh-faced and scrubbed clean, with her damp curls tied back in a loose bun using a rubber band she had found on the bathroom counter, she heard the rumble of a truck pulling back into the driveway. She rushed to the window just in time to see the man step out, Byrdie’s carrier in hand.
“Thank God,” she whispered, a wave of relief washing over her.
A moment later, he walked back in, dripping-wet but grinning.
“Yer wee beastie’s safe and sound,” he announced, setting the carrier gently on the floor.
Heather dropped to her knees, peeking into the carrier to find Byrdie blinking up at her, unimpressed but unharmed.
“You’re my hero,” she said, looking up at him with genuine gratitude.
He shrugged, his grin turning sheepish. “I cannae leave a wee kitty-cat in distress, now can I?”
“Seriously,” she said, standing up. “Thank you. I owe you, like, a million favors.”
He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I’ll settle for you tellin’ me how, exactly, you ended up in the middle of my cow pasture.”
“It’s a long, embarrassing story,” Heather groaned, covering her face with her hands.
Amused, he walked toward the kitchen. “I’ve got more tea. And I reckon you’re not going anywhere in this weather. Start talking, lass.”
Despite the chaos of the evening, Heather couldn’t help but laugh with him. She launched into the whole tale of her misadventures, starting with Alastair and the broken-down car and ending with her unexpected arrival on his doorstep.
Heather took a deep breath, still feeling slightly ridiculous standing in his shirt and sweatpants, but she mustered a smile. “I’m Heather, by the way. Heather Campbell.”
The man leaned casually against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed as he gave her a warm, lopsided grin. “Flynn Duncan. Nice to meet ye, Heather Campbell. Though I’ll admit, this isn’t exactly how I thought my night would go—soaked underthings and cow shite included.”
Heather groaned, her cheeks flushing. “Please don’t remind me. That was… not my finest moment.”
Flynn chuckled gleefully, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Och, dinnae fash about it. Happens to the best of us.”
God, even his laugh was attractive. Unacceptable.
“Really? You’ve stepped in cow poop before?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
He shrugged, smirking. “Aye. It’s a rite of passage in these parts. Though I cannae say I’ve done it while marching through a storm wearing… whatever it was you were wearin’.”
Heather laughed despite herself, the tension in her chest easing slightly. “It was supposed to be my stylish-yet-comfortable travel outfit. You know, for my grand new start in Scotland. So much for first impressions.”
“Well, I think you’ve made quite the first impression,” Flynn teased, pushing another mug of tea across the counter toward her. “Though I’m not sure it’s what ye were goin’ for.”
Heather rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks. For everything. Seriously. I don’t know what I would’vedone if you hadn’t opened the door.”
Flynn straightened, his gaze softening. “Ye’d be surprised what ye can manage when yer desperate. But I’m glad you knocked. Yer safe now, and that’s what matters.”
She sipped her tea, the warmth spreading as the rain continued pounding against the windows.
“So… Flynn Duncan. Do you always rescue wayward travelers, or is this a one time thing?”
He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the cozy cottage. “Not usually. Most folks know better than to wander into a highland cow pasture in a storm.”
Heather shook her head, smiling. “Well, lucky me, then.”
“Aye,” Flynn said, his grin softening into admiration. “Lucky for both of us, I’d say.”
Heather shifted in her borrowed clothes, still damp and clinging uncomfortably, but her focus landed on Flynn. He was tall—easily over six feet—and built like someone who knew the value of hard work. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his plain gray shirt, and the damp ends of his dark brown hair curled slightly at his temples from when he’d braved the storm himself. A stubbled beard shadowed his jaw, adding to the rugged, effortless charm. But it was his eyes that caught her most—starkly blue, yet warm, holding her gaze with a quiet attentiveness she wasn’t used to. Not assessing, not appraising—just seeing. It threw her off balance in a way she couldn’t quite name, like she’d stepped onto unsteady ground. She told herself it was nothing, just a stranger being polite, but the feeling lingered.
