Page 22 of Burning Hearts
The extra token Tansy had tried to add when meddling.
I let my smile be all teeth. “Count the tokens, Beau.”
The crowd hooted and a lady in a peach blouse yelled, “Count the tokens!”
Miss Pearl raised her clipboard in the air.
“One minute,” Beau said, tapping his watch. “Give me a number.”
“One million,” I said with a wink.
“Specificity!” Beau exclaimed. “I love it.”
He crooked a finger, and I stepped back.
“And now,” he announced, “the gentleman who showed you what sandbags are for: Brickyard Brewery.”
The cheer for #TeamBrew sounded as if somebody had tuned it in advance. Cade took the steps like they were part of the floor. No strut, no show, just a person going to accomplish the next task.
It was… intriguing to say the least.
Cade wore a suit, all business.
He took the mic carefully, like he’d rather wrangle a hose than sound equipment.
“We’re building a taproom,” he said, his voice even. “We’ll brew clean, hire local, and close no later than ten. Family-first, quiet neighbors, strict on ID.”
“That’s it?” Beau asked, placing his hand on his chest. “Give us a little prose, Cade.”
“We’ll keep an eye on all the exits,” Cade said. “And the beer will taste how it says it tastes.”
More laughter than he’d probably expected. It landed because it was plain and because it was true.
Beau shifted into mischief. “Is your lager as smooth as your paperwork, Cade?”
Cade didn’t blink. “We at the fire station don’t sign off on our own paperwork.”
Wyatt’s blink as he sat in the crowd was the button that sold it as a joke.
“Look at that,” Beau said. “A man who won’t even rubber-stamp himself. Riverfield, those are the kind of trust issues welike."
The audience laughed again, but this time warmer.
“And in a historic first,” Beau said, “Wyatt Kerr finds contentment on a public street.”
“Stand by,” Wyatt said, without moving his mouth.
The audience chuckled.
Beau made a sweeping gesture. “All right, Wick & Wax, this is your moment. Charm me with fragrance and fiscal prudence.”
They rolled their glossed display into the light. An apothecary jar, matte-black labels, and a delicate podium. The lead presenter—all cheer and smiles—lifted the lid on a chrome box.
A tiny hiss erupted, followed by a glittering fountain of metal sparks reaching up like a party trick.
Wyatt was there in a flash.
He didn’t raise his voice. “Not in the Commons.”
