Page 99 of Of Heather and Thistle
“Right,” Flynn said finally, his voice unreadable again. “I’ll keep ye updated on the final work.”
She nodded again, uselessly. “Thanks… Flynn.”
He hesitated for half a second. Then, just before the call disconnected, she thought she heard him murmur something in Gaelic—low, rough, like the words had been torn from his throat.
Heather’s breath caught. It was quiet—barely more than a whisper—but she heard it.
“Chan eil seo ceart.”
This isn’t right.
Her chest tightened, a sharp, painful squeeze. She almost—almost—said something. But then the line went dead.
Heather stood there, still holding the phone to her ear like an idiot, as if she could pull back time, as if she could make him say it again.
She pressed her lips together, swallowing the ache threatening to spill over.
It didn’t matter.
Itcouldn’tmatter.
And yet, long after she set her phone down, long after she turned away—those words still echoed in her bones.
This isn’t right.
And yet, she walked away.
Chapter 29
Summer was coming to a close, wrapping the Highlands in a golden haze. The days stretched long, the sky a brilliant blue that melted into soft hues of pink and purple come evening.
The air smelled of sun-warmed earth, wild heather, and the distant brine of the sea, carried inland by the shifting breeze. Even the rain, when it came, was different—warmer now, gentler. The kind that misted over the hills instead of lashing against them. Heather had never seen anything like it.
When she arrived, winter clung to the land, the skies perpetually gray, the wind biting her skin. The damp cold had seeped into her bones, making everything feel heavier—like the past she had come to sort through. But now, the world felt alive. The fields near Glenoran were bursting with color—heather and thistle swaying lazily in the breeze, their purples and greens painting the hills like watercolors.
The lochs shimmered under the sunlight, and the forestshummed with birdsong, the deep green of the trees richer than she had ever imagined. It was beautiful. And yet, the more beautiful it became, the more ithurtto look at. Every wild bloom and polished stone felt like a thread tightening around her heart—tugging her closer to something she couldn’t let herself want.
She had spent the last few months trying not to notice. Trying not to let it sink in. Because soon, she’d be leaving. Heather pushed aside the thought as she walked into her room at the inn, dropping her bag on the floor. She’d finished going through storage and was nearly done with the last few loose ends tying her here. All she needed was confirmation from Mr. Reid about her mother’s relatives, and she could move forward with selling Glenoran. Then, she could go back to Millhaven, back to the life she spent so much time building for herself. She told herself that life was still waiting for her. A career. A clean slate. A city where no one expected anything. But the truth was, Millhaven didn’t feel like hers anymore. Not really. Not like this place did.
And that terrified her.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her from her thoughts. She reached for it absently, but her pulse stuttered when she saw the name on the screen.
Flynn Duncan.
Swallowing, she swiped the message open.
‘The House is done. All’s left is furniture and final touches. You should come to see it.’
Heather inhaled again slowly, the warmth of the summer air pressing against the windowpanes. It was time. And she wasn’t ready. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The logical response would be a simple thank you, maybe apromise to stop by soon. Something detached, professional.
Instead, she typed,“I’ll be there this afternoon.”
The moment she hit send, her stomach clenched. Returning to Glenoran felt like stepping into a story that wasn’t hers to finish. And worse, stepping into a place that had started to feel like home, even when she fought against it. Even when she fought against him.
* * *
Heather pulled up to the house, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The sight of Glenoran, fully restored, sent a sharp pang through her chest. The crumbling edges had been smoothed, the windows gleamed in the soft summer light, and the once-weathered wood of the doors now stood strong, rich with new stain. It looked like it had been waiting—like it had been brought back to life. And Flynn had done it.
