Page 86 of Of Heather and Thistle
She didn’t owe him anything, but silence didn’t feel as satisfying as she’d hoped, so she tossed it onto the bedside table, refusing to engage.
She dropped her head back against the pillow and exasperatedly flipped her phone over, staring at the blank screen… waiting. As if he’d text again. As if she wanted him to.
She didn’t. Obviously.
She exhaled through her nose, shut the phone off, and tossed it onto the nightstand. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself every time she nearly picked up the phone.
She spent the last few days holed up in her room, doing nothing productive. No renovations. No storage unit sorting. No thinking about why, despite her best efforts, she kept feeling like Glenoran was pulling her back in. She told herself she needed space, but it hadn’t helped her.
Mostly, it had left her staring at the ceiling, contemplating every lousy decision she had made in the last few months—including but not limited to getting involved with a crumbling estate and a contractor who was entirely too steady for her liking. She stretched out on the bed, flipping her phone in her hands, debating whether to turn it back on. It wasn’t like she owed Flynn a response. But also…. she did.
She wasn’t sure how many hours had passed, only that the sky outside her window had darkened, and the hum of the inn had shifted into the lively buzz of the evening. A knock at the door made both her and Byrdie jump—Heather nearly dropped her phone on her face, which sent Byrdie scrambling under the bed with a dramatic thud of protest. She frowned, pushing up onto her elbows. No one ever knocked. She considered ignoring it, but then a voice, cheerful, too chipper for this late in the evening, called out:
“Heather! Are ye in there?”
Heather groaned, rolling onto her stomach and pressing her face into the pillow for a second before dragging herself up.
Claire.
Slipping off the bed, she opened the door just enough to glare at the woman on the other side. Claire Kinnaird, the owner of the Thistle Haven Inn, stood there with her arms crossed, wearing the patient but unyielding expression of someone who had dealt with far too many difficult guestsbefore.
“Yes?” Heather asked flatly.
Claire arched her brow. “Ye coming down to the ceilidh, or hiding up here with yer wee cat till the walls cave in?”
Heather’s breath escaped in a slow rush. “Not in the mood, Claire.”
Claire hummed like she’d bet money on that exact response. “Aye, well, that’s a right shame. Didn’t strike me as the type to ghost a good party, hen.”
Heather stiffened. “I never said I was going.”
“No, but ye havenae left the inn in days, and quite frankly, ye look miserable.” Claire gave her a once-over before nodding toward the hallway. “Get dressed, mo ghràidh. You could use a drink and a dance.”
Heather wanted to argue and tell her to mind her own business, but instead, she stared at Claire in silence. She could stay here. Keep avoiding everything. Keep pretending she didn’t feel anything at all. Or…
Heather sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Fine. One drink.”
Claire smirked as she walked away. “That’s the spirit.”
She’d planned on sulking. Not dancing. But now, standing in front of the small dresser in her room, she found herself combing through her red curls, smoothing out the tangles with careful fingers. It had been a while since she put effort into her appearance. Since arriving in Scotland, most days had been filled with dust-covered clothes, practical sweaters, and her hair thrown into a messy bun without a second thought. But tonight… after Claire’s pestering, she decided it might be better to feel like herself again.
She reached for her small makeup bag, dusting a light layerof powder over her freckled cheek and adding a hint of soft blush and mascara. Nothing too dramatic—just enough to make her more alive. And finally, she pulled out the dress. Dark green, elegant, but effortless, the fabric hugged her soft curves in all the right places. She had packed it just in case, though she hadn’t been entirely sure what “just in case” meant. Maybe now she did.
It had a fitted bodice that cinched at the waist before flowing into a soft, sweeping knee-length skirt. The kind that would move beautifully while dancing. The neckline dipped into a tasteful V, showing just enough of her cleavage to be flattering but not over the top.
Heather hesitated as she studied herself in the mirror, her eyes drifting to the curve of her chest. Her large breasts had always made her self-conscious, like their very presence needed an apology. She had spent years hiding them under loose shirts, crossing her arms, avoiding anything that drew attention.
But tonight, she didn’t feel exposed or uncomfortable. She looked… good. Feminine. Confident. Sexy, even. Her mother had been the same—soft with feminine curves, vibrant, a woman who had never shrunk herself to make others comfortable. Her beauty rivaled those of classic Hollywood starlets. EvenMarilynwould’ve blinked twice. Heather traced her fingers over the fabric, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. She looked like her mother tonight. Like the kind of woman who didn’t apologize for taking up space.
And somehow, that softened her mood.
Claire had insisted that a ceilidh was something everyone should experience at least once. Heather had been reluctantat first, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized she had spent too much time alone and stuck in her head. So tonight, she would go. Not for Glenoran. Not for the past. Not for anyone else.
Just for herself.
With a slow, steadying breath, she grabbed her coat and purse and glanced in the mirror before heading out the door. She didn’t know what the night would bring. The unknown used to terrify her. Tonight, it felt like an open door.
