Gray watched the exchange with fascination. There wasn’t an ounce of guile on Annabelle’s face. She meant every word she said, and he adored her for it. This was a woman with brains and kindness and a bottomless well of humor. He wanted to court her, not haggle with Caroline’s dressmakers.

“You can bring the other box back in,” he said gruffly. “I’ll pay for it.” He didn’t want to say underwear in front of Annabelle. It was embarrassing enough to have a sister who squandered a fortune on fripperies, let alone mention such intimate items in front of Annabelle. He asked Otis to write a check for the entire invoice. Anything to get the dressmakers on their way.

Monsieur Chastain was effusive in his gratitude as he accepted the bank note. “It is an honor to dress a lady for the White House. Should Miss Caroline need any additional—”

“She won’t,” Gray said as he ushered the pair toward the door.

“It is still an honor that our clothes shall grace the president’s home. Please convey our gratitude.”

The door closed behind the dressmakers, and he was alone with Annabelle.

“Your sister visits the White House?” she asked, her eyes as disbelieving as if Caroline visited the moon.

“She works for the first lady. She is a ‘social secretary,’ whatever that means.”

“It sounds very impressive.”

“I find your sister more impressive,” he said honestly. “Your sister has a perfect excuse for never lifting a finger, and yet she moved across the country to volunteer her time in a meaningful endeavor. I fear that Caroline cares for nothing but parties and fancy clothes. I told her about you and Elaine.”

“You did?”

How could he not? He’d been preoccupied by thoughts of Annabelle from the moment she walked into his house with that ridiculous spice map, but he didn’t want to speak of his frustration with the beautiful, frivolous Caroline.

“Come on back to the kitchen. I’ve made something for you.”

His nerves started getting to him. What a stupid idea to try to impress her with a spicy fruit punch instead of the safe option of a simple cup of tea.

“It smells good in here,” Annabelle said as she joined him in the kitchen.

It was a narrow room with a stove and shelving on one side and a small dining table on the other. The carafe of spice-infused citrus punch sat in the bucket of ice on the back counter. He poured her a tall glass over ice and watched carefully as she took her first sip. Her eyes widened, her brows rose. She took another sip and looked as if she wanted to levitate.

“Oh my heavens. Does your company sell this?”