SPLOOSH!
A river of dark ink cascaded across the desk, soaking the nearest papers before dripping ominously toward the floor.
“Oh good heavens!” Augusta cried.
“My letters!” Josie wailed.
“My desk!” Margaret squeaked.
George barked, panicked by all the noise, and bolted straight through the spray of falling papers.
Phoebe shot out of her chair. “George, no!”
But the damage was done.
Letters flew. Envelopes spun. Ink splattered. George’s paws made little inky stamps across the floor as he darted around in chaotic confusion.
And then Braxton saw it.
A half-open folder gliding slowly, dreadfully, toward the edge of the ink-splashed desk.
The label read:
JONES, BRAXTON: GROOM FILE
“Well, tarnation,” he muttered, and dove.
His boots skidded on scattered papers. His hand shot out. The file hung half-over the desk, tilting toward the puddle below.
He grabbed it just as something collided with him from the side.
No… someone.Phoebe.
She’d lunged for the same file, quick as a cat, skirts swishing, determination in her eyes. Their hands hit the folder at the same time.
George yelped, changed direction, and plowed straight into Phoebe’s ankles. She pitched forward.
Braxton had just enough time to thinkthis is about to go badlybefore she toppled full-length onto him. They hit the floor together, papers cushioning the fall in the messiest, least helpful way imaginable.
The breath jangled right out of him. Some of Phoebe’s hair escaped its pins, and a soft curl brushed his cheek. She braced her hands on his chest to lift herself, and only succeeded in smearing a streak of ink across his vest.
He didn’t care about the vest. His hands had instinctively caught her waist to steady her, and her breath brushed his jaw. Phoebe’s eyes went wide, and impossibly blue as they met his at very close range.
Time hiccuped.
Braxton was acutely aware of the slight weight of her against him. The warmth radiating through her sleeves, the flutter of her breath, and the faint scent of soap and paper and something lilac.
The sisters shrieked. “Oh my stars!” Augusta cried.
“Phoebe!” Margaret gasped.
“Mr. Jones!” Josie squeaked, clutching her pearls. “That’s… oh dear!”
Phoebe's face flushed scarlet as she scrambled off him, slipping on a stray ink-splattered envelope. Braxton sat up, catching her elbow before she slipped again.
“Oh!” she breathed. “I… I’m so terribly sorry…”
“Not your fault, sweetheart,” he said, voice coming out rougher than intended, along with the endearment. “This hit us all at once.”
