Page 7 of Burning Hearts
Heat climbed up my collarbone.
I reminded myself that he wore a tie because his ex-girlfriend told him to. That he was straight and that I shouldn’t build a plot out of good, Southern manners.
Me:Noted.
Across the room, Cade reset the doors with one hand and my evening with the other.
Public rivals with a private line.
I checked my watch. Program break in three.
Decision Night on Thursday was already looming. I rolled my shoulders and told myself again to stand with operations, not over them.
If I wanted Riverfield—and the firefighter with steady hands—to see me, I’d have to keep it simple.
I slid my phone back into my pocket and tried not to think about how simple stopped the second Cade Briggs texted me.
CHAPTER TWO
CADE
By ten AM,Beau Fontaine had turned Main Street into a scoreboard. Cast Iron Café rolled out chalkboards like it was election night, pins clinked into baskets labeled #TeamBrew, #TeamSignal, and #TeamWick. Beau’s “stage” was two milk crates and his ego.
I looked out at the audience as they eagerly observed.
Lattes in one hand, phones in the other, Riverfield was ready to vote.
“Welcome back toHot Seat,” Beau said into his mic as wind ruffled the pecan trees behind him. “Live from Ember City! Kidding, Tansy. Riverfield.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Left side,” Beau said, “Brickyard Brewery—heroes with hosesandhops. On my right, Signal House—people who make your phones happy without setting off the sprinklers.”
Beau looked at me. I looked back. He grinned like he’d just reeled me in.
“Fireman Cade Briggs,” he drawled, like a parade emcee. “I have a question for you: if #TeamSignal promises sizzle, what doyoupromise?”
“Exits,” I said.
A beat, followed by laughter. The third-row church ladies clapped.
Beau nodded, delighted. “Cade promises exits. We love a man with a plan.”
Wyatt Kerr, Riverfield’s Deputy Fire Marshal, sat next to me, nudging me with his elbow.
“Don’t be embarrassing,” he said, scooting closer to me, whispering so the microphone wouldn’t catch his words. “The boys at the fire station are counting on you. Win the prize, that’s three years on Main and a million bucks.”
“Wyatt, I?—”
He lifted a hand to interrupt me. “They’re all counting on you, Briggs.”
Wyatt was always around to offer encouragement with a dash of anxiety. He wasn’t a part of the Brickyard Brewery business, but we’d been friends for years.
“Hey! I wore the tie,” I said. “My last girlfriend swore people only took me seriously if I looked like I sell insurance.”
Wyatt pinched his own tie. “Does it work?”
I flicked my chin at Beau. “Ask our host.”
