Page 1 of Burning Hearts
CHAPTER ONE
ELLIS
“Welcome to The Langford Hotel.”
The front desk attendant swiped my card and tried to put a five-hundred-dollar hold on my dignity.
“It’s a temporary incidental charge,” the clerk said in a cheerful tone. “One hundred dollars per night, for a five-night stay.”
Riverfield didn’t greet me; it audited me. It clocked my cables, my credentials, and my hopes, then asked for receipts.
The card reader chirped as if judging me, then flashed a hard, red NOPE.
“Sir,” he murmured, “your card has been declined.”
I forced a smile and opened my banking app. My car payment had drafted early. Until payday in two days, I’d be low on funds.
I smiled like a man newly passionate about budgeting.
Step one: have a budget.
“Do one hold,” I said. “One hundred for tonight, I won’t charge anything to the room.”
He peered at the screen as if it might print my net worth. “I can ask a manager?—”
“We’ll waive it,” Tansy Langford sang, appearing like a well-dressed solution. “Perks of being my favorite nephew—terms and conditions apply.”
Everything about her was polished: blonde hair up, cream suit with a small magnolia brooch. Old-money elegance, zero glitter.
I had one rule while in town: do the job, dodge the dynasty.
At The Langford, Aunt Tansy’s word moved mountains. But I was hardly her favoriteanything. I lived thirty minutes away in Atlanta and we barely spoke to one another. People assumed I was backed by her wealth. I wasn’t.
Which was why my card had failed in her lobby.
“Thank you,” I said, “but no. One hold, one hundred. I’ll pay my way.”
The lobby hummed in anticipation while the chandelier above us glistened. The clerk pressed a few buttons, and the system finally decided to cooperate.
Miss Pearl, the woman who kept the town of Riverfield running, drifted past with a clipboard and the kind of gaze that could straighten a room without touching a chair. One nod from her, and my behavior was stamped “fair.”
“We hope you enjoy your stay at The Langford, Mr. Langford,” the clerk said, relieved. “A private elevator will take you straight to the Magnolia Suite.”
I resisted the reflex to remind the clerk that I wasn’t that kind of Langford.
“There must be a mistake,” I said. “I booked the standard king room.”
Tansy’s smile didn’t fade. “Darling, we’ve upgraded you to the Magnolia Suite for your first night. You can slum it in a standard tomorrow.”
“I don’t need?—”
Tansy waved her hand at me. “It’s done; I won’t hear another word.”
My producer brain reminded me that I only had twenty minutes to drop my bag and make The Peach Ball, the kickoff to Residency Week and the million-dollar Langford Prize. Signal House, the production studio I worked for, had applied, which meant my week had a camera on it. My boss assumed my last name meant leverage. I’d told him the board voted for the winner—notthe Langfords.
He didn’t buy it.
In the elevator, I glanced at the printout:
