Midnight Lily(22)

Glancing in the direction he was looking, I saw the edge of the book of poems peeking out of my backpack. I shrugged. "Oh, nothing," I said, using my foot to push my bag closed.

"Nothing? That looked like a book to me. What? Is it a tawdry romance novel or something?"

I laughed. "No. Just . . . a book of poems."

"You like poetry?"

I could feel the heat of his gaze on the side of my face and felt the color moving up my neck to my cheeks. Something about him knowing about my love of poetry felt very personal. "Yes," I said softly. "I do."

"Can I see?"

I hesitated briefly, but couldn't think of a good reason to tell him no. Plucking the book from my backpack, I held it in his direction without looking at him. He took it from my hand and was silent for a moment. "Romantic poetry." I heard him flip through it and then stop as he read to himself. My curiosity too great, I couldn't help but look over and see which poem he'd stopped on.

"She walks in beauty, like the night," he read, "of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright." He looked up and caught my eye. "Lord Byron." He paused. "I never knew that this one's about you," he said softly. I felt my blush deepen and looked down at my own hands.

"It's written about Mrs. John Wilmot, Byron's cousin by marriage. She was in mourning when he met her."

He hummed. "Maybe for Byron it was about her, but for me, it's about you." I brought my gaze to his and for some reason I wanted to weep. How often had I sat alone reading that poem and dreaming of someday being admired that way? "Lily of the Night," he said gently. "I knew it was the perfect way to describe you." My heart bursting with joy, I could only smile. He handed the book back, and I replaced it in my backpack.

"You knew it was Byron," I said. "Do you like poetry, too?

"I like literature," he said, a confused look crossing his face, his brow furrowing. He brought his hand up to his head and massaged his temples as if he was grasping on to a memory and it hurt. "Yes . . ." he said, bringing his hand down and smiling at me. "I haven't talked to anyone about that in a long time."

I nodded, feeling pleased that he'd shared something personal with me.

We spent the next hour or so talking about the things around us, the birds in the trees, the types of plants that grew next to the water. I knew the names for some of them, but not all. I'd received a book on Colorado flora and fauna years back and had attempted to learn as much as I could, but as I soon learned, it'd take a lifetime to know it all. And who knew—maybe that's what I had. I'd frowned with the thought, something desperate and yearning that I didn't know how to define filling my chest and making my heart squeeze. I wanted more than what my life was now. More than the small, dark, lonely world I lived in.

I wanted someone to save me. But I didn't know what to do about that.

As the hour wore on, I noticed Holden's hands begin to shake, and although the sun was shining on us, he began to perspire in a way I thought was excessive for the weather. I'd seen signs before that he was sick, but I didn't know how—or if that was part of what he was going to address in some manner while he stayed away.

"You should get back," I finally said, my eyes landing on his trembling fingers. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, looking nervous and sad.

"Yes, I should. This has been one of the best days I've spent in years. Thank you for giving this to me. Thank you for spending your time with me."

I shook my head. "It was really . . . I enjoyed it, too." That felt like such an understatement, but I didn't know how else to express to him how much I'd enjoyed our time together, how he'd made me forget that I was so lonely, how I never wanted this day to end.

I collected my things, rolling the fish up in plastic—the one Holden had caught with his hands and two others I'd caught with the pole—and placed them in my backpack. I left my fishing pole behind as I usually did.

We walked in silence most of the way back, Holden looking increasingly nervous. My heart was pounding, too. I didn't know when I'd see him next, and I already missed him. And that terrified me. I wanted more time. Don't go, I wanted to say. Please don't go. Not yet. But I couldn't, and I wouldn't, and he'd asked me to give him time. Lost in my own thoughts, I hardly noticed when we arrived at the edge of the woods where he would leave me for his lodge. Holden leaned back against a tree and crossed his arms over his chest. He'd put his T-shirt back on, and it was mostly dry, but his jeans were still damp. He closed his eyes, his expression pained.

Forcing a smile and suddenly feeling very awkward and shy, I took a deep breath and stepped closer to him. "The look on your face . . . you look as if you're going off to war," I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Holden released a gush of air. "Not exactly . . . but it kind of feels like it. Will you be waiting for me, Lily?"

I wasn't even sure exactly what I was waiting for. Holden Scott confused me, and I felt completely out of my depth. But, for me, there was only one answer. I smiled. "Yes." His eyes roamed over my face.

"Why do you look at me that way?" I asked softly.

"What way?"

"Like you're trying to memorize me. Like you think I might disappear."