Chapter 7 #2
“Mr. Pringle,” Phoebe said carefully, “I think we should take some time. To get better acquainted.”
He frowned. “Time? How much time could that possibly require?”
George chose that moment to lean in and sniff Mr. Pringle’s hand. The man yanked it back “Keep that beast away from me,” he snapped.
“He’s not a beast,” Phoebe said before she could stop herself. “He’s a good dog.”
Braxton’s mouth twitched.
George sniffed at Mr. Pringle’s coat next, then, with alarming swiftness, darted his nose into the man’s pocket and emerged with a folded piece of paper.
“George!” Josie yelped.
The sheepdog bolted, the paper clamped between his teeth.
“My schedule!” Mr. Pringle cried.
Chaos erupted. Josie chased George around a desk. Margaret ran in the opposite direction. Augusta shouted orders nobody followed. And the crooked Christmas tree wobbled dangerously when George ran past.
Phoebe sank lower in her chair.
Braxton folded his arms and watched the spectacle for a beat, lips pressed together, eyes bright with barely contained amusement.
Mr. Pringle, on the other hand, clutched his pocket dramatically. “That animal is a menace! I demand someone do something!”
Braxton whistled once. George, mid-gallop, skidded, turned, and trotted straight to him, dropping the paper at his feet.
“Good boy,” Braxton murmured. He picked up the slobber covered paper and offered it to Mr. Pringle. “Here you are, sir.”
Mr. Pringle snatched it back and examined it. “Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. I shall have to replace this.”
Phoebe suspected the man didn’t need to have his schedule written down, and only carried it for show.
“Perhaps,” she said, forcing her politest tone. “We should continue this another day, Mr. Pringle. I have work to do for the sisters, and I’m sure you’re a busy man.”
He seemed offended. “I rearranged my schedule to be here.”
“And we’re terribly grateful,” Augusta called. “Aren’t we, Phoebe?”
Phoebe gave them a thin smile. “Very.”
Mr. Pringle drew himself up. “Very well. We shall speak again soon. I will confer with the sisters about the timeline. My mother doesn’t care for delays.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Phoebe murmured.
He marched to the door, paused, and looked back over his shoulder. “Do try not to let that dog near me again.”
George growled softly. Braxton laid a calming hand on George’s back. “We’ll do our best,” he said.
The door closed behind Mr. Pringle with a sharp click. Silence followed.
After a moment, Augusta sighed with satisfaction. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
Josie clasped her hands. “So refined.”
“And so decisive.” Margaret fanned herself with a folder. “Don’t you think so, Miss Hale?”
Phoebe stared at them. “Decisive is certainly a word.”
Augusta beamed. “You’ll be very comfortable as Mrs. Horace Bartholomew Pringle, dear.”
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.