Phoebe looked up. Braxton’s eyes held hers. They were deep, steady, and saw too much. “Yes,” she whispered.
He nodded once, almost solemnly, then went back to copying things. But something in the room had shifted. Their breaths seemed to fill the same small space. Every rustle of paper or crackle of the stove felt louder.
Phoebe forced herself to continue writing, though her pulse beat faster than before. A sudden gust of wind slapped the windows, making her jump.
“You cold?” Braxton asked immediately.
“No, I… well, perhaps a little.”
He stood before she could refuse. “Here,” he said, lifting his coat from the coat rack. He returned and draped it around her shoulders.
It was warm. Too warm. And smelled like him. Pine, leather, and something faintly smoky, like campfire nights she’d only read about in books.
“Oh,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly…”
“You can,” he said simply. “It’s going to be a cold night.”
Her fingers curled into the heavy wool and she fought the urge to snuggle into the coat.
He sat again, this time a little closer, as though unconsciously drawn toward the warmth they now shared. George adjusted his sleeping form until he touched both their feet again, snuffling in contentment.
The lamplight flickered and Phoebe’s heart thudded. She bent over a particularly smudged letter and willed her pulse to behave. But when she looked up again, Braxton was watching her. Not boldly, just with quiet attention. Like he saw her… and wanted to.
Phoebe swallowed. “What are you thinking?”
“That ink on your cheek,” he said softly. “You missed a spot earlier.”
She lifted a hand, embarrassed. “Where?”
He reached up and gently brushed his thumb just below her cheekbone.
Phoebe froze.
So did he.
His thumb left a faint streak of black on his own skin. Her breath tangled in her throat. They were too close, far too close. “Mr. Jones…” she whispered.
He didn’t move away. The wind eased outside, and the snow drifted in perfect silence.
Phoebe’s heartbeat filled the space between them.
He lowered his hand very slowly, his fingers grazing her jaw. Her skin tingled, and her lips parted! She leaned in without meaning to, drawn like a moth to fire. Goodness gracious, their foreheads were nearly touching!
His breath feathered across her mouth. She closed the remaining inch…
THUD.
A massive heap of snow slid off the roof and fell just outside the windows, rattling the glass. George leapt to his feet barking wildly, launching himself between them to get to the source of the noise.
Phoebe almost fell out of her chair with a strangled squeak, her hand hitting one of the lamps.
Braxton cursed under his breath, caught it, and sighed in relief.
The moment, perfect, delicate, and terrifying, shattered like ice beneath their feet.
“Oh goodness!” Phoebe gasped, clutching her chest. “That sound. George! Stop! Hush!”
George kept barking.
