Chapter 1 #2
Riverfield didn’t whisper about safety after the Biscuit Fire; they wrote it into code.
Three years ago, on a windy afternoon, Cast Iron Café had hosted a special brunch.
A kitchen torch, honey-butter br?léed biscuits, and dried Spanish moss in the window had all met a bad gust of wind.
Awnings went up like kindling, and half the block smelled like burnt sugar for a month, like Riverfield had tried to crème-br?lée itself.
No fatalities, a few smoke inhalation calls.
And a town that now simulated candlelight.
Tansy had been the one holding the torch, demonstrating ‘harmless’ brunch theatrics.
The fire had pushed from one storefront to the next, chewing through a boutique, the law offices above it, and a small grocer before crews knocked it down.
The Langfords paid for the rebuild, and half the town signed nondisclosure agreements that politely renamed it an “incident” and put everyone on a first-name basis with their insurance agent.
The rest of us called it the Biscuit Fire—just not when Tansy was in the room.
I headed for the ballroom. Inside, the room smelled like citrus and magnolia leaves. Chandeliers hummed and people did their best not to stare and absolutely stared anyway. I drifted along the riser, checking the AV run, laying fresh tape where needed.
I pivoted to step back, and my heel caught the yellow-and-black cable ramp, a raised lip I hadn’t seen. The world tipped as the floor seemed to swing up to meet me. A glass clinked.
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 labeled CONFISCATION 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.
The birthday girl laughed, the camera clicked, and the only thing burning was the frosting’s ego.
Miss Pearl winked at me as she drifted past. Around here she was known as Miss Pearl; “Ms.” was for insurance forms.
“No candles on my watch,” she said.
“Because of the Biscuit Fire?” I asked, low.
“Hush, sugar.” Her smile faded. “On Main Street we say, ‘the pastry incident.’ Especially when the ballroom mics are hot and your Aunt Tansy is on the mezzanine.”
House lights warmed. The Town Talk logo glowed on the screen. Beau floated onstage in a velvet jacket that could have hosted its own party. He did a tight, glittering welcome that made the room sparkle. Phones rose like tidewater.
Riverfield loved watching itself shine.
Beau leaned into the mic, smooth as a toast, and said, “Welcome to the Peach Blossom Ball, the kickoff to Residency Week. Local businesses and startups have thrown their hats in the ring for a chance to win the Langford Prize; one million dollars for their business, plus three years of free rent in a prime, downtown location.”
On a walnut pedestal near centerstage, the vintage peach basket waited with its engraved rim, heart-pine handle, and the wooden tokens already counted and logged.
Draw night in Riverfield was a good, old-fashioned raffle. Every qualified applicant got one engraved wooden token. By noon on the day of the drawing, Miss Pearl and a bank rep counted them, initialed a ledger, and tucked them into the peach basket.
“Tonight, we draw three finalists for the prize,” Beau added. “They’ll have a week to win over our hearts and show what they’ll bring to the town, then our five-member board will vote on Decision Night. As always, Tansy and Harlan Langford host the Ball, but they do not vote.”
The bank president stepped to the lectern with the expression of a man about to make friends and enemies.
“Good evening,” he said.
I glanced over at Cade, who was seated at a table with the Riverfield firefighters. There was a placard on their table that read: Brickyard Brewery.
From the wing, Aunt Tansy drifted into the light, palm up, an extra engraved token balanced like a favor.
“Just a little clerical correction, darlings,” she said, lights flashing on her face. “A token was… somehow left out.”
Miss Pearl moved before the room could inhale. Clipboard in one hand, authority in the other. She wrist-tapped Tansy.
“Bless your heart,” she said, as sweet as iced tea. “But we’re not doing that today.”
Then she took the stray disk, turned it to the entire room, and lifted it high enough for every phone in Riverfield.
SIGNAL HOUSE flashed across the rim.
For a half-second the ballroom went perfectly quiet, everyone suddenly pretending they hadn’t seen what they’d just seen. A slow heat flashed across my face. A camera shutter snapped, then another. Miss Pearl set the token back in Tansy’s palm and lowered her clipboard.
“The only thing we’re adding tonight,” Beau purred into the mic, not missing a beat, “is hairspray.”
Riverfield wrote that down like a law, chanting “Hairspray!”
A wave of laughter broke, then comments started stacking in the air.
A few people in the audience called out: “Count the tokens to make sure it’s fair!”
There was a new subtext in the room, and my last name was all over it. I glanced toward the west doors. Cade Briggs watched with that barely-there smile that read: rules matter. My chest steadied and tightened at the same time.
Perfect, I thought. Now the gorgeous firefighter thinks I’m a nepo baby with an extra token.
I was furious. Tansy had tried to manipulate the results of the drawing in my favor like the only thing that mattered was a Langford winning. I’d never been this embarrassed in my thirty-three years on earth.
Apparently, the town now had a new slogan: Count the tokens.
The bank president reset the mic, turned the basket with an audible wooden click, and reached in. Everyone in the crowd held their breath as he read the first name drawn.
“Brickyard Brewery.”
A cheer surged from the back where Station 1 sat. No whoop from Cade; his table whooped for him. He took it in stride.
Another spin, wood on wood.
“Signal House.”
A camera at the stage edge blinked red. I kept my face producer-neutral and let the stomach-drop skate down my spine. At least it would make great television. Jonah would be thrilled Signal House got the draw.
But now my entire reputation would need to be rehabbed.
One more draw.
“Wick I was staring at one.
Up close, the suit read function, not peacocking—the kind you wear because the job requires it, not because you want to be watched. He skimmed the cable run, then me. I braced for a joke with my last name in it.
“Congrats,” he said, voice low enough just for us. “Keep your runs clean.”
Relief loosened something I hadn’t noticed I was holding.
“Always,” I said, matching his tone. “And count the tokens.”
His eyes held mine for a single, neutral beat—the human equivalent of all clear—then the crowd took him toward the west doors. Phones were still up. The brass band in the corner slid into something bright.
Over by the sponsor wall, people practiced being seen and noticed. Station 1’s table laughed as if they had good stories to tell.
My phone buzzed. Beau had started a text thread with all the finalists, which he named Tokens & Hairspray. He also added Wyatt Kerr, Riverfield’s Deputy Fire Marshal, and designated safety brain.
Beau: Press clarifications. Cade is our fireman. Ellis, Producer. And Wick, a finalist.
Another buzz with a different tone. Not the thread. A new bubble.
Cade Briggs: Good catch on keeping the cable path clean.
My thumb hovered as I reminded myself it was professional courtesy, not flirting.
Me: Good catch on keeping me upright.
He answered before my pulse could settle.
Cade: For the record, that token stunt wasn’t on you.
Heat climbed up my collarbone.
I reminded myself that he wore a tie because his ex-girlfriend told him to. That he was straight and that I shouldn’t build a plot out of good, Southern manners.
Me: Noted.
Across the room, Cade reset the doors with one hand and my evening with the other.
Public rivals with a private line.
I checked my watch. Program break in three.
Decision Night on Thursday was already looming. I rolled my shoulders and told myself again to stand with operations, not over them.
If I wanted Riverfield—and the firefighter with steady hands—to see me, I’d have to keep it simple.
I slid my phone back into my pocket and tried not to think about how simple stopped the second Cade Briggs texted me.