Byrdie sniffed at Heather’s toast, decided she disapproved, and accepted a berry instead.
Heather toyed with her fork for a moment, then finally spoke.
“We should start in Inverness. There’s a woman, Eleanor I think was her name, who reacted when I mentioned Glenoran… Like she knew something.”
Flynn raised a brow. “So we’re wandering the town until we find her?”
Heather shrugged. “Something like that. It’s called alead, Flynn.”
A flicker of anticipation passed through her. “She might know things about my family; she seemed to know a fair bit about the house. More than she let on.”
Flynn’s expression softened, his grin easing into something gentler. He reached across the table, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.
“Then we’ll find her.”
Heather’s shoulders loosened at his certainty. She nodded.
They finished breakfast in an easy rhythm. When Heather stood to clear her plate, the tune returned unbidden, crooning softly past her lips.
Flynn paused mid-drying, head tilted.
“There it is again.”
Heather flushed, embarrassment painting her cheeks crimson. “Get outta my head, song.”
As they gathered their coats and stepped toward the foyer, the melody lingered—familiar, bittersweet, like a memory stretching its legs.
Byrdie darted ahead, clearly expecting an invitation. Heather scooped her up, pressing her cheek to the warm fur.
“Not this time, Byrdie-girl. You’ve got mice to bully in the cellar. Very important job.”
Byrdie blinked, utterly unconvinced, before offering a softmrrowof protest.
Heather laughed, setting her down. “Hold the fort.”
Flynn smirked from the door. “She’s absolutely plotting revenge.”
“Oh,definitely.” Heather slipped on her coat with a sly grin, the chill outside no match for the spark of excitement running through her.
Chapter 2
Heather—Present Day
The Highland Hearth smelled just as it had that night: the smoky tang of the fire, the yeasty warmth of ale, the faint sweetness of cider clinging to old wood.
Heather paused in the doorway, her lips curving despite herself. Last time she’d stepped through this door, the room had been alive with fiddles and laughter—the Beltane ceilidh. She could almost see it now: the swirl of dancers, Flynn’s hand pulling her into the reel, the spin of her skirts, the dizzy warmth of his lips brushing hers for the first time near the bar.
Her chest fluttered at the memory, but today the air buzzed differently. Not with celebration, yet rather with possibility.
Flynn leaned close, his voice warm at her ear.
“You’re dragging me into a pub before noon.”
She glanced up at him with a grin. “You weren’t complaining last time.”
He smirked, blue eyes glinting. “Aye, but there was kissing involved then. This looks more like breakfast and trouble.”
Her laugh slipped out, easy and bright. “Both things you can handle.”
