Page 113 of Charlotte

She had known. Hearing it was different.

Lottie’s hand went to her throat. “Then why are you leaving me?”

“Because love does not make me less afraid.”

“No,” she whispered. “It only gives you something worth being brave for.”

He stared at her, and the fight in him looked thinner now. Worn down. Nearly gone. For one dangerous moment, Lottie thought he would cross the rest of the space and kiss her.

His eyes dropped to her mouth.

Her lips parted.

Cecil stepped close enough that the hem of her skirt brushed his boot. His left hand lifted toward her cheek, hesitated, then touched the damp place beneath her eye with the back of one finger.

The tenderness of it nearly broke her.

“Do not cry for me,” he said.

“I am not crying for you.” His thumb stilled. “I am crying because of you. There is a difference.”

A pained laugh, soft and unwilling, broke out of him. Then his hand slid to the side of her face, and he bent toward her.

Lottie did not step back.

She wanted the kiss. Wanted it with the foolish, aching, whole-hearted honesty he kept trying to save her from.

His mouth hovered above hers. Close enough she felt his breath.

Close enough every sensible thing in her simply gave up and sat down.

Then he stopped.

Not because a door banged open this time. Not because of Luke, or Jack, or the entire meddlesome town.

Because he chose to. Cecil rested his forehead against hers instead.

“I cannot kiss you again and still walk away,” he said.

“Then perhaps you should stop walking away.”

His hand tightened once on her cheek.

“I do not know how.”

It was the truest thing he had said all morning.

Lottie closed her eyes. “Then learn.”

He drew back slowly. The loss of his touch was immediate.

“I need time.”

“You have until the Fourth.”

His brow drew together. “What happens on the Fourth?”

“I tell the truth.”