Page 78 of Of Heather and Thistle
Heather exhaled, offering a small, grateful smile.
She stepped into the room, brushing her fingers over the old wood of the window frame. “I guess part of me wonders if I’m doing the right thing. The house is… a lot. And it’s a big responsibility. But I can’t shake the feeling that maybe it’s meant to be. Like there’s something I’m supposed to do here.”
Flynn followed, his gaze thoughtful but never intrusive.
“Sometimes, the right thing isn’t the easiest,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong path. You don’t have to have all the answers yet. You’re here. That’s a good start.”
Heather’s chest tightened at his quiet reassurance.
Uncomfortable with how easily he saw her, she shifted gears. “So, what’s next?”
Flynn paused, glancing around the room before straightening. “Let’s start with what’s in front of us. The roof’s still the biggest priority, but once that’s sorted, we can focus on the interior.”
He adjusted the straps on his work gloves. “We’ve ordered more materials, but they won’t arrive for a few days. In the meantime, we’ll tarp the roof, but it won’t be fully waterproof.”
His gaze flicked to her, careful now.
“I’d suggest heading back to the Thistle Haven Inn for now. Just until we get it sealed up properly.”
The house still smelled like dust—but also of her. Her shampoo. Her coffee. It was starting to feel like hers. Like it remembered her.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the windowsill, reluctant. She had only just begun to settle in—to carve out a space for herself in this house and history. But Flynn was right. The roof needed work. The house wouldn’t be livable for a bit longer. Still, the thought of sleeping somewhere else, even just a few nights, left an odd pang in her chest. “We’ll take care of what we can for you,” Flynn continued, noticing her shift in mood. Heather raised an eyebrow. “What about the rest of the stuff? The things I’m not sure about yet?”
“Good point,” Flynn said with a nod. “With roof work starting and everything else going on, we should think about moving the furniture and anything worth keeping out of the way.” Heather frowned, glancing around the dusty parlor, where old furniture sat beneath white sheets, untouched for years. “You mean moving everything out of the house?”
“Not everything,” Flynn clarified. “But some of this stuff could get damaged with all the work happening. Dust, debris,and possible leaks aren’t exactly ideal for keeping heirlooms in good shape. I was thinking of renting a storage unit in town. Just temporary, until we get through the worst of it.”
Heather hesitated, crossing her arms instinctively.
It made sense, of course. The house wasn’t livable, and renovation wasn’t exactly gentle. If she left everything where it was, the furniture could be ruined beyond repair, the books warped with moisture, the curtains coated in dust and plaster.
But the thought of packing up her family’s things and locking them away off the estate made her stomach twist.
“I don’t want to lose track of anything,” she said finally.
Flynn’s gaze was steady. “Then help us go through it. Decide what stays, what gets stored, and what’s beyond saving.”
Heather bit the inside of her cheek, glancing at the furniture, the old trunks stacked in the corner, and the dusty bookshelves.
“Once things leave this house, it feels like more of it slips away.”
Flynn was quiet for a few breaths, then exhaled softly.
“I get that.” His voice was gentler now, less pragmatic. “But I’d rather move things for a little while than watch them get ruined for good.”
Heather sighed, rubbing a hand over her temple. “Alright… but I get the final say on what goes.”
Flynn nodded. “Fair enough.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And if you throw anything out without asking me first—”
His mouth quirked up. “You’ll kill me. Got it.”
Heather rolled her eyes, but the tension inside her loosened a little.
She could fight this all she wanted, but the truth was, Flynn was right.
If she wanted to save the parts of Glenoran that mattered, she had to accept that change—temporarily or not—was inevitable.
