Page 38 of Burning Hearts
Behind us, Ellis followed with a second bottle and a producer brain that hated not knowing the end of a story.
Halfway down, his shoe found a stripe of foam and his weight shifted wrong. I didn’t think. Hand on his belt, palm at his hip; I anchored him to the rail and to me. Heat through fabric, and a quick breath against my jaw, theohin his throat.
“Got you,” I said, low. “Wet stairs, they deceive.”
His laugh was all breath and apology. “Noted.”
I let go first and he opened his eyes like he was turning a dimmer up slowly. Wyatt cleared his throat—the kind reminder of a man who pretends not to see things he saw.
“Back to work, gentlemen,” he said.
“Copy,” we said together, which was ridiculous but exactly right.
We came off the stairs into the back corridor, the part of the hotel that always smells of steam and secrets. White residue tracked in shoeprints, and the air burned with a chemical taste at the back of my throat.
The alarm was gone now, replaced by radios and the clanging sounds of someone reorganizing pans.
Ellis checked his notes, a man making sure the world added up.
“Eighty-four accounted,” he said, and then put a cold bottle in my hand.
“Good number,” I said, and drank.
He watched my throat for one second too long and pretended he hadn’t.
“Just… don’t get hurt,” he blurted.
“You just… don’t block my exits,” I answered, quieter than I’d planned.
We stood there doing nothing we could put in a report. My fingers twitched; his did, too. Then a radio flared to life, boots and a rolling cart cut between us, and the spell broke clean.
Wyatt rounded the corner, clipboard in hand.
“Floor’s clear,” he said. “The duct’s cooling. Portico will smell like a chemistry set for a few days, then it’ll just be a story.”
Wyatt gave Ellis a nod I didn’t see him hand out often. “Good pull.”
“Thanks,” Ellis said.
Beck appeared with a damp towel over one shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled, PR smile holstered perfectly in place.
He took in the corridor, the agents, the staff, us, and addressed the nearest cluster of servers.
“Lantern Room reopens tomorrow,” he said evenly. “Tonight, we did what matters.”
Miss Pearl ghosted past with a tray of water and a look that calmed the room. “Romance stays battery-powered, people stay breathing.”
As she passed us, she tucked a fresh towel into the crook of my arm without breaking stride, then let her eyes lock on the inch of air between our not-quite-touching hands. The smallest, satisfied curve touched her mouth, and then she was gone.
Somewhere in Portico, somebody let out an easy laugh, and the building’s pulse settled.
“See you tomorrow,” Wyatt said to me. “We’ll walk the lane.”
Then he turned and looked at Ellis and added, “Could you tell Beck and the rest of the hotel staff that the stairs will be mopped soon?”
Ellis nodded, thanked him, and then faced me like we were back at a quiet bar, and the world hadn’t tried to cook itself. Up close he had a smear of foam on his jaw. I lifted the towel; hedidn’t move. I wiped it away and pretended that wasn’t the most reckless thing I’d done all night.
“Thanks,” he said.
