Page 29 of Burning Hearts
It landed heavier than I meant it to.
Ellis went still. “Thanks.”
I cut the biscuit because there was nothing else to cut. Ellis reached for jam, and our fingers brushed.
My ears warmed as if somebody nudged a thermostat. I told myself it was the coffee.
“About the token,” he said, and the air suddenly shifted. “You should know I didn’t?—”
“You don’t have to explain your aunt to me,” I said. “I have one, too.”
He laughed, as if in spite of himself. I liked that sound more than I should have.
“I meant I didn’t ask for it,” he said. “I just don’t want?—”
“I know.”
It was weirdly easy to say and even easier to believe. Ellis carried himself like somebody who preferred fairness.
“We’ll let the townspeople make the jokes,” I added. “We’ll do the work.”
“Work,” he repeated.
Miss Pearl drifted by without stopping. Per her rule, that meant we were clear for the moment. She adjusted a stack of menus and was on her way.
“Lantern,” Ellis murmured.
I followed his eyes. Beau breezed past in stylish loafers. He didn’t stop to greet us.
Instead, he sang, “Save the flirting for my finale,” and left laughter at the counter.
“We’re not flirting,” I told the sugar caddy.
“We’re working,” Ellis told his napkin.
A #TeamSignal woman called from the line, “I loved thePitch & Play!”
Ellis lifted his coffee. I lifted nothing at all, then realized I had nothing in my hand and simply waved at her.
The woman accepted that and went back to admiring the pies.
We finished dinner with the kind of quiet conversation I was rarely able to enjoy. We made a list because that’s what people like us do.
Planning numerous events for the coming days—The Town Talk, the finalist demos, the tour stops—was a draining task, yet somehow less difficult with Ellis.
“Shared signage,” he said, trying to keep us both on-topic. “Simple. ‘Keep lanes clear.’ ‘Batteries included.’ ‘Finalists Tour QR.’”
I nodded and said, “Add ‘No sparks on the Commons.’”
Ellis smiled. “I’ll let Wyatt write that copy.”
I laughed, probably a little too loudly. “He’ll send you the entire safety manual.”
“Curb check seven-thirty,” he said, already typing into his phone.
“Commons open at nine,” I said. “We’re out of people’s way by eight-forty-five.”
If you squinted, it looked like a date. I didn’t squint.
