Page 32 of Charlotte
Lottie gathered her botany book and went before courage could negotiate terms.
By the time she reached the front door, Mr. Peterson had stepped to the side of the boardwalk, half hidden behind one of the porch posts. He looked as if he had considered leaving and had been trapped by his own manners.
“Good morning, Mr. Peterson.”
He tipped his hat. “Miss Bellamy.”
Still not Lottie.
She was noticing how carefully he used the name he had chosen for her. Not rude. Not cold. Only distant, as if every Miss Bellamy set one more plank between them.
“You came to breakfast?”
“No.”
That answer was discouraging in its efficiency.
“Oh.”
His gaze moved to the dining room window, then away. “I brought these.”
He held out the brown-paper bundle.
Lottie accepted it because he had offered it and because refusing would have required more wisdom than she currently possessed. The parcel was not heavy, but it had weight enough to be practical.
“What is it?”
“Brackets.”
She looked up.
“For shelves,” he added, as though there were many sorts of breakfast parcels a man might bring a woman.
“I understood.”
“Stafford had extra. Not enough for the whole wall, but enough to start.”
Lottie held the bundle carefully. “You went to the carpenter this morning?”
“He was awake.”
Warmth spread through her so quickly she nearly forgot the brown paper in her hands. He had almost teased her. On purpose, perhaps. Or at least not entirely by accident.
“That is a very Delly answer,” she said.
His mouth stilled at once. “Is it?”
“Yes. She specializes in answers to leave the question standing exactly where it began.”
The ease returned, but faintly. “Then perhaps she and I have something in common.”
“Besides a fondness for avoiding direct inquiry?”
His eyes met hers.
Again, the breath went out of her. Not because he looked through her. That was not quite right. Mr. Peterson looked at a person as though most of the world had become noise, and for one alarming moment, she was the only thing he had chosen to hear.
He looked away first.
