Page 71 of Charlotte
He did not give the flower to her.
Instead, he opened the botany book to a blank scrap page and set the bud between two clean sheets with the care of a man handling something easily ruined. His injured hand came out long enough to hold the paper steady while his left arranged the stem.
This time, Lottie did look.
Not staring. Only looking, because the hand was his, and she did not want to pretend otherwise forever.
Peterson noticed. His fingers withdrew from the page.
Lottie met his gaze. “You chose a good one.”
He held her eyes for a moment, searching for pity and not finding it.
Then he looked back at the book. “It may keep.”
“I hope it does.”
He closed the botany volume around the flower and secured it with the strap.
Lottie smiled down at the book. “Now the eastern botany volume is improving.”
“By being corrected?”
“By holding proof of summer.”
He glanced at her then, and the look was so gentle she nearly forgot they stood in broad daylight above a churchyard.
Peterson cleared his throat and picked up the book. “I should get back.”
“Yes. Of course.”
They walked down more quietly than they had climbed. At the uneven place in the path, he offered his left hand again. This time, Lottie took it without looking surprised.
This time, he did not release her the instant the ground leveled.
They walked three steps with her hand in his before the church roof came into sight. He let go slowly enough it felt like a choice rather than a retreat.
At the back of the meeting hall, he handed her the field papers but kept the botany volume tucked under his arm.
“For pressing,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll bring it back when it’s done.”
“I trust you.”
His gaze rested on her face.
Trust did not sit lightly between them. It had weight. Not the heavy, frightening kind, but the kind that asked to be carried with care.
Peterson touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Lottie.”
Her name again.
She smiled. “Good day, Peterson.”
He left with her botany book, her Tennyson, and one small wild rose pressed between the pages.
