George, certain this was some kind of group activity, plopped his head right onto Braxton’s chest with a proud little huff.
Braxton fell back with a sigh. “George, get off…”
George didn’t budge.
Phoebe knelt beside them, her hair mussed, and giggled. Braxton noticed the hem of her skirt was decorated with small splotches of ink. She reached to steady herself and left a faint black fingerprint on his sleeve.
He gently took her by the wrist. “Phoebe…your glove.”
She looked down, horrified. “Oh no.”
“Reckon neither of us is fit for Sunday best anymore,” he said. How one of her gloves managed to be in the middle of the mess, he didn’t know.
She laughed. The sound soft, embarrassed, and musical. It hit Braxton somewhere low in the ribs, making him look away.
The sisters bustled around them, trying to collect letters and blot ink. “Why is George covered in smudges?” Josie cried. “Oh! Oh no, he’s tracking ink everywhere!”
George barked, delighted with himself.
Phoebe pushed to her feet, smoothing her skirt. Ink dotted the hem in little black freckles. Braxton rose more slowly, wiping at the smear on his vest before giving up. He held out the rescued file. “We got it.”
Phoebe accepted it carefully, her fingertips brushing his. “We did.”
There was that inconvenient little spark again. He cleared his throat. “You all right?”
“Yes,” she murmured, though she still wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
Augusta reappeared with a bucket of sand. “Spread this! Quickly!”
Braxton did as instructed, sprinkling sand over the worst of the ink while Phoebe gathered up salvageable papers.
Margaret chased George with a damp cloth. The dog fled, thinking it was a game, while Josie tried to catch falling envelopes before they hit the floor. All she really did was knock more to the ground.
Utter chaos. And yet… when Phoebe knelt to collect a handful of letters, she smiled. A small, rueful smile that saidwe’re all in this together.
That did something dangerous to him.
When the frenzy died down, the sisters retreated to the back to argue about how best to sort the newly destroyed papers, leaving Braxton and Phoebe within arm’s reach of each other.
Phoebe looked down at her skirt and sighed. “I suppose this is what happens when one works in a mail-order bride office.”
He leaned a little closer, voice dropping without his permission. “Could’ve been worse.”
“Oh?” she asked.
“You could’ve landed in the ink.”
She laughed again, quiet and lovely. “I believe you cushioned the fall. Oh dear, your clothes…”
He could feel heat creep up the back of his neck. “Reckon I did. And don’t worry. I got more clothes.” A beat passed, a warm, fragile beat he wasn’t ready for.
“Mr. Jones!” Augusta called. “We need your strength to move a cabinet.”
“Coming,” he said, though he didn’t move.
Phoebe’s fingers brushed a stray curl back into place. She looked up at him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You’re very kind,” she said softly. “To keep helping them out like this.”
He shook his head. “Just tryin' to keep this place from fallin' apart.”
