Page 23 of Burning Hearts
Four words, one beat. He pointed to theCONFISCATION STATIONtote Miss Pearl held. The lead swallowed, flipped a switch, and the sparks died. Miss Pearl plucked an LED taper from her apron and snapped it on with a tidy little click.
“Battery romance,” she said, buttery smooth. “Show us your fragrance.”
Their lead presenter recovered like a professional. “It has a top note of lemon.”
#TeamSignal and #TeamBrew exchanged a glance that looked suspiciously like common ground.
Beau turned it into a runner. “Wyatt Kerr versus science fiction, tonight at nine. Sponsored by Wick & Wax, bravely attempting to reboot the Biscuit Fire as ‘The Sparkle Incident.’”
Beau did a quick pivot. “Let’s take the town’s temperature.” He gestured toward his cameraman, who spun a QR code toward the audience. “Vote with your phones. Tell us now: Team Brew, Team Signal, or Team Scented Candle. No Russian bots, please. We’re Southern.”
Pins lifted and people cheer-voted, the sound vibrating through the Commons.
Adrenaline rushed through me, imaginary static.
“Lightning question,” Beau said, peering at his paper card. “From the patron saint of Not Today.” He turned to Miss Pearl. “Madam Arbiter?”
“After 9:59,” she called, not bothering with the mic because her voice didn’t need it, “what’s your rule?”
“Mic down by 9:59,” I said.
“Last call by 9:59,” Cade said at the exact same time.
The overlap made the Commons laugh in that open-mouthed, delighted way. Beau clutched his chest and his imaginary pearls.
“Did they just… sync?” he said to the camera, absolutely scandalized. “Riverfield, avert your eyes.”
I pretended not to look over at Cade but failed. He didn’t smile. Instead, he did the micro-acknowledgment he’d been doing since the ballroom: all clear.
If there was heat in that moment, it behaved.
Beau fanned himself with his card. “Round two! Each finalist returns for the hard sell. Thirty seconds, maximum charm. Ellis, darling—back up.”
Beau gave me the mic again as if he were passing a baton we both wanted to win with.
“Signal House will pay artists and guests,” I said, quick and clean. “We’ll run ASL interpreters for open-mic nights. We’ll build a high-school mentorship pipeline. And we’ll license clips back to local businesses for free so their grandmas can watch them be clever.”
“But…” Beau started, “will you ban TikTok dances in the Commons?”
“Only the dangerous ones,” I said with a wink. “If you can’t safely execute a grapevine, you’re on probation for a month.”
“Riverfield on probation!” Beau repeated, delighted. “I smell a merch drop.”
He pivoted. “Cade?”
Cade adjusted the mic stand.
“We’ll have stroller parking inside,” he said. “Bike rack outside. Water bowls for dogs. We’ll host CPR refreshers once a month and blood drives twice a year. And we promise to be boring by ten.”
“Boring is the new sexy,” someone in the crowd yelled.
Beau pinched his fingers together like he’d found spice. “Sell your rival in one sentence,” he said, suddenly turning predator against predator. “Ellis, sell Brickyard. Cade, sell Signal. Minimal slander.”
I took a breath, watched Cade watching me, not to see if I’d flatter him but to see if I’d lie.
“Brickyard,” I said, “is the calm you want between the thing that happened and the thing you want to happen next. It’s a third place run by someone who knows neighbors matter and who will politely close at ten so you can’t make your worst decisions there.”
A low murmur from the audience.
