“You know. Lacy stuff.”
Phoebe smiled. “What does your mother like?”
“Lace,” he said simply. “Lots of it.”
Phoebe stepped forward. “Why don’t you show us some nightgowns?” She glanced at Braxton. “With lace.”
The saleswoman looked down her nose at Phoebe. “Very well.”
Braxton had little patience for this sort of thing. He reached into his billfold and pulled out a handful of gold coins. “And anything else you have with lots of lace.”
The woman turned, took one look at the money, and straightened. “Yes, sir.” She hurried behind the counter.
Braxton quickly tucked the money away before Phoebe turned back.
When she did, she cocked her head. “Hmm. She suddenly became attentive.”
He shrugged.
Phoebe let out a long sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
One corner of her mouth curved up. “I never come into places like this. Once they realize you don’t plan to buy anything, or think you can’t afford it, they ignore you and hope you’ll leave.”
“You don’t like shopping,” he said.
“No.”
His protective instincts flared. How dare anyone ignore Phoebe.
The woman returned with several large boxes and a few smaller ones. “What size is your mother, sir?”
Braxton studied her. “She’s built like you, only a bit shorter. And strong as an ox.”
The woman swallowed, her expression pinching. “I see.” She opened one box and lifted out a lovely nightgown. Lace trimmed the collar and sleeves, with tiny blue bows adorning the front.
“That’s beautiful,” Phoebe breathed.
“And warm,” the woman said. She smiled at Braxton. “Is this something your mother would like?”
“It is.” He smiled. “I’ll take it. Set it aside.”
She nodded curtly. “It should fit, given your description.” She reached for another box.
They went through the same routine, Phoebe commenting on fabrics and styles. By the time they finished, Braxton had selected three nightgowns, a robe, and a pair of slippers for his mother.
While the woman wrapped the parcels, Phoebe glanced around the shop. “They have lovely things here.”
He caught her admiring a hat in the window. “Do you like that, Phoebe?”
“Yes,” she breathed, unable to look away. Then she drew in a breath, as if snapping herself free, and smoothed her skirt. “Who wouldn’t?”
Phoebe moved to browse a rack of ready-made dresses. The saleswoman watched Braxton, clearly waiting for this moment.
He pointed toward the hat and stepped closer to the counter. “I’ll be back for the hat,” he said quietly. “Wrap it. I’ll pay for it now.”
The woman smiled. “I’ll see it done.”
