Page 4 of Burning Hearts
My stomach dropped.
A hand closed around my forearm—firm and steady—and another braced the small of my back, turning the fall into a controlled stop, like he did this sort of thing for a living.
Instead of the floor, I hit a solid, dark jacket that did not budge.
“Easy,” a low voice said by my ear. “Watch the ramp.”
I looked up. The face I’d seen when I was on the Magnolia terrace. Now in a suit.
Cade.
He held me just long enough for my balance to catch up, then he let go like he trusted me not to go down again.
“Copy,” I said, trying to cover the flush in my neck. “I’ll fight the floor. Odds aren’t great.”
“Floor usually wins,” he said. “You good?”
I nodded. “All clear.”
His gaze slid past me to a streamer cannon aimed straight at a sprinkler head. He stepped in, loosened the clamp, and swung the barrel toward center.
“Forty-five degrees,” Cade told the tech. “Not pointed at the ceiling. Test.”
A polite little noise sent paper magnolias arching safely.
I couldn’t help myself. “I was bracing for a petal ambush.”
Cade laughed. “I’m not big on indoor showers. I’m anti-sprinkler unless something’s actually on fire.”
I nodded. “I’m more of a slow burn guy anyway.”
Cade tipped his chin at the sprinkler. “Then we’ll keep you dry.”
Across the room, someone called, “Briggs, west doors!”
He released my forearm—one last, efficient squeeze—and moved.
Finally, a last name to attach to my fantasy.
Cade Briggs. Filed under things I shouldn’t say out loud.
A friend passed Cade, teasing him, “That tie makes you look domesticated.”
“Hey!” Cade said. “My ex-girlfriend said ties make people take me seriously.”
They laughed and walked off toward the west doors.
Evidently, my crush was a straight, competent man who spoke to me only when saving me from myself.
At a nearby table, a woman struck a match to light her friend’s cupcake with a real birthday candle for a photo. Miss Pearl appeared from thin air, set two gentle fingers on the woman’s wrist, and smiled like a stop sign.
“Make a wish, not a fire,” she said. “The vibe is simulated per code, and our romance is battery-operated.”
The match disappeared into a clear bin labeledCONFISCATION STATION—Lighters / Sparklers / Regrets.
A server swapped in a tiny LED flame pick.
Miss Pearl tucked two peppermints into the birthday girl’s palm—the official Riverfield apology for being right.
