Page 97 of Of Heather and Thistle
She forced herself to move, shoving back the covers and yanking on her jeans with quick, jerky movements. The room smelled like him—sawdust, soap, and something warmer. Something she couldn’t name.
She hated how much she liked it.
Catching her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her hair was tangled, her lips kiss-swollen, and a bloom of color still lingered low on herthroat. A stranger. Someone who had let herself be wanted.
She traced her lips with unsteady fingers.
Proof of him.
Tearing her gaze away, she slung her bag over her shoulder, ignoring the untouched coffee and pastry on the nightstand. She couldn’t touch it. Not when it made her feel… wanted. She wouldn’t think about how thoughtful it was. How easy kindness seemed to come to him.
* * *
Downstairs, the inn was quiet, the breakfast rush long over. The scent of coffee and toast still hung in the air. She slipped past, head down, avoiding Claire’s friendly smile at the front desk.
She needed to move—to outrun the restless energy clawing at her ribs.
The storage unit.Yes.
That’s why she was here. To sort through her mother’s things. To close the book on a history that had never included her. Not to get tangled up in a man who made her want to stay.
Outside, the morning air was crisp, and the overcast sky stretched low over the town. A sharp breeze bit at her cheeks as she walked briskly down the cobblestone streets, locking down her thoughts.
It didn’t matter that Flynn had been sweet. It didn’t matter that she’d woken up expecting—wanting—him to be there.
Because he was gone.
And maybe that was for the best.
She just had to convince herself to believe it.
Chapter 28
By the time summer had swept into the Highlands, Heather had made more progress than she had ever expected. The storage unit—once an overwhelming cavern of dusty boxes and forgotten heirlooms—was nearly empty. Sorting, cataloging, and deciding what to keep or let go had become methodical.
She’d unearthed old family letters, some written in careful, slanted handwriting that she suspected belonged to her mother’s grandmother. There had been faded photographs, sepia-toned, of people who looked like strangers but shared the same high cheekbones and unruly curls. A delicate silver locket with a thistle engraved on the front, tucked away in a box of moth-eaten tartan fabric.
Some things she kept, others she carefully packed into donation bins or arranged for historical preservation. But with every box she emptied, the weight in her heart grew heavier because clearing out the storage unit meant that soon, there would be nothing left tying her there.
Nothing but Glenoran.
She had spoken to Flynn a handful of times since then, but only when necessary. It was strictly business: updates on the restoration, material approvals, and brief logistical check-ins. She kept every call clipped and every email impersonal, refusing to engage beyond what was necessary.
And he let her.
Never pushed. Never called hermo chridheagain. And maybe that was what hurt the most—that he’d believed her when she said it didn’t mean anything.
Now, with the storage unit nearly cleared, she had one last thing to do—find a buyer for Glenoran. Because the longer she stayed, the more it felt like Glenoran was trying to convince her to stay, too. And she couldn’t afford to listen to ghosts.
She’d already started looking into distant relatives—anyone from her mother’s side who might have more of a connection to the place than she did. The last thing she wanted was to see it go to a developer or left to decay. It needed someone who would care for it and see it for what it was. Because that someone wasn’t her. Couldn’t be. Even if, late at night, when she closed her eyes, she still dreamed of Glenoran’s stone walls and the scent of sawdust and rain. Even if, no matter how much distance she put between them, she still thought about Flynn.
Heather stood at the entrance of the nearly empty storage unit, dust motes swirling in the golden evening light. The final boxes were stacked neatly by the door, ready for donation or shipping, and all that remained was a battered old trunk that she hadn’t yet brought herself to open. She exhaled, pressing her palms to her thighs. Almost done.
The thought should’ve brought relief, but it didn’t. Instead, it left her feeling… untethered. For months, this task had given her something to focus on. It had given her a reason to stay long enough to sort through the past without getting lost. But once this was over, once the house had sold, there would be nothing left for her here. She brushed her hands off on her jeans and grabbed her phone from her bag, scrolling to the latest email from Mr. Reid she had contacted about her distant relatives.
“There is a potential family connection on your mother’s side—a cousin twice removed, still living in Scotland. I’ve reached out and will follow up when I have more information.”
Heather clutched her phone tighter, her chest tightening with something that felt a lot like regret. This was the right thing to do. Glenoran deserved someone who would stay and tend to it like her mother’s family once had. Not someone who had spent her whole life running.
