The name alone made her want to lie down. “I… don’t know about that.”
“Nonsense,” Augusta said. “He’s perfect for you. Respectable, steady work, a doting mother…”
Phoebe choked. “I’m not sure I require a doting mother.”
“Every young bride does,” Margaret insisted. “Especially one in need of guidance.”
Phoebe opened her mouth, and closed it again.
Josie bent down and scratched George’s head. “And to think, you barely growled at him.”
“I noticed,” Phoebe muttered. She felt Braxton’s presence before she looked up.
He stood near her chair, his expression serious. “You all right, Phoebe?” he asked, voice gentle.
She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve been better.”
Augusta moved toward the back room, humming happily. Josie and Margaret followed, already discussing Phoebe’s future wedding dress. Their voices faded as they disappeared behind the door to the back.
George dropped something at her feet with a wet plop. Was that Mr. Pringle’s glove?
“Oh, George,” she whispered, picking it up delicately. “You dreadful, wonderful creature.”
Braxton huffed a soft laugh. “Seems he’s made his opinion known.”
“Apparently,” she said. Phoebe turned the glove in her hands, then looked up at him. “You don’t think he’s… perfect for me… do you?”
Braxton’s jaw tightened again. “I think he’s got a mighty high opinion of himself and not enough room for anyone else.”
Phoebe bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “That’s a very diplomatic way to put it.”
“I could say it less polite.” He smiled.
“I imagine so.” Silence stretched for a moment, warm and awkward.
Braxton shifted, his eyes on the door leading to the back rooms. “For what it’s worth, ya don’t have to say yes to any man who don’t see ya right. No matter how much the sisters fuss.”
Phoebe studied him. His gaze was steady and solid as ever. Her heart did an odd little turn. “I’ll remember that… next time someone mentions training me.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “A wife is a partner,” he muttered. “Not a project.”
Phoebe’s breath caught and she looked away, setting the glove aside. “Thank you, Braxton.”
“Anytime,” he said with a wink.
George nudged her hand, and she stroked his head absently. For the first time since stepping into the office that morning, she felt her lungs fill all the way. The sisters might believe Mr. Pringle was a perfect match… but her heart knew better. And, she realized with a tiny flicker of panic, Braxton’s opinion mattered to her far more than it should.
Phoebe bent over the nearest stack of letters, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck.
Across the room, Braxton returned to his work. But every few minutes, she felt his gaze again.
When she looked up once and caught it, their eyes met for a brief, unguarded moment. Something passed between them, soft, confusing, and entirely unwelcome. Phoebe dropped her gaze back to the papers. “Absolutely not,” she whispered to herself. Braxton was not romantic interest. Not at all.
George sighed, laid his head on her foot, and closed his eyes as if he knew better.
Chapter Eight
Phoebe wasn’t sure why she was back after yesterday’s meeting with Mr. Pringle. What if the sisters wanted an answer about him? Not that she wasn’t ready to give one. It was more the dread that he was her only prospect. And why were all three of the Merriweather sisters smiling?
