Page 35 of Burning Hearts
“Good,” Beck said, already turning back to whatever other problems he was trying to solve.
Miss Pearl did one last pass with a basket of biscuits she pretended was about carbs but was actually about morale. She set one on each finalist’s table and placed a tiny LED candle next to mine as if we were celebrating something we hadn’t named.
“Daylight’s kinder when you eat,” she said, then added to me alone, “and when you stop pretending you don’t like what you like. Eyes first, hands later.”
She patted my wrist and floated off to adjust a picture frame.
People walked all around us, filling the air with chatter. Wick & Wax sold safe sparkle, Brickyard signed two names for a someday mug club, and Beau narrated the square.
That was Beau’s gift.
An hour later, Sunday declared itself controllable. The square relaxed and I stopped filing incident reports every time Cade moved in my peripheral vision.
“Break,” Beau said, appearing with a mic he didn’t point at my mouth. “Two minutes. Spend it on something flattering. Lantern Room does wonders for skin tone—and Beck swears he needs ‘test footage,’ so try to look like you’re not having a secret meeting.”
“Noted,” I said.
He grinned at the cameraman. “Battery-operated patience, folks,” he announced to anyone listening.
I tucked a cable tail that no longer needed tucking because my hands wanted an assignment. Across the way, Cade rolled his shoulders, a man who’d agreed to stand in dim light with a neighbor and was being painfully adult about it.
My phone buzzed again, my calendar reminding me: Lantern 9:15.
I didn’t need the reminder, but my pulse liked the drama. I straightened our last sign by a single, unnecessary inch. The Commons could keep its own heartbeat. Mine was already racing.
“See you in the Lantern Room,” I said aloud to no one.
I’d pretend it was a meeting about lighting; not about how Cade looked in it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CADE
The Lantern Roomwas designed to flatter, not illuminate. Smoke-glass lanterns cast a soft amber glow that made faces look like they’d made good choices instead of bad ones.
We’d staked out the quiet end of the bar. Ellis half-leaned on the rail, and I angled toward the service door. His jacket was off, his collar open in a way that looked accidental but probably wasn’t.
We were talking crowd flow like it was the only thing on the table.
“Left aisle in, right aisle out,” he said, fingertip tracing an invisible path on the bar. “If it looks simple, people will follow it.”
“They follow more than arrows,” I said. “They follow whoever sounds like they know what they’re doing.”
He gave a small laugh, eyes on his glass. “Threaten me with responsibility, why don’t you.”
“Not a threat,” I answered. “You’ve already got the voice. Might as well use it.”
That got a real smile, quick and slanted. I didn’t push it.
The room hummed with ice in glasses and low conversation. For once, the night seemed willing to take its time.
Then the calm blew apart.
A loud but muffled crash sounded from below us, followed by the hard, pressurized hissing sound I recognized instantly—a kitchen hood dumping suppression down the line. Strobes punched through the lantern glow, and a brutal alarm tone cut straight through the cozy ambiance.
Portico, I thought.Restaurant level.
“Fire,” I said, not loud, but already moving.
