Chapter 6 Cade
CHAPTER SIX
CADE
Cast Iron Café was wide awake and bustling.
Coffee steaming, plates clattering, and the grinder making background noise like a white-noise machine.
There were booths along the back wall, two-tops down the center, and the takeout line which curved toward the chalkboard like a river.
Pins on lapels even at dinner, #TeamBrew and #TeamSignal, as if the town had decided to keep score over supper.
I got there three minutes early because on time is late in my book. And also, because I thought it might matter to Miss Pearl.
She clocked me as I came through the door. Navy shirt, denim apron, with a Sharpie and two tiny LED lights tucked in the pocket.
Her cat-eye readers were riding low until she nudged them with her knuckle.
“You’re first,” she said, as if I couldn’t tell. “Back booth. And keep your hands to yourself unless you’re passing salt.”
“I’m straight,” I said, which is not the standard response to table instructions.
Miss Pearl didn’t blink. “And I prefer a quiet dishwasher. Life is full of facts.”
She palmed our tickets, tapped the fine print with her two-finger wrist tap, and said, “Look, it says redeem together. Counts as one if separated. Isn’t it amazing how my handwriting finds its way into policy?”
This was her favorite kind of meddling—logistics with feelings.
She slid the tickets back and added, “If you need a code word, say ‘lantern.’ I will remove the audience with grace.”
“Copy.”
It was the only thing I could think to say.
The back booth had the angle I preferred. A wall at my shoulder, a view of the floor, and the kitchen door left of me for noise. Through the swing door, the dish station made the kind of noisy racket that could hide a conversation.
Or a confession.
Ellis arrived on the minute. Dark jacket, sleeves pushed once like an accident. His stubble had been trimmed; the kind of trimming that one does on purpose. He saw me see him and slowed half a step.
Then pretended he hadn’t.
We stood next to the table.
“Rules are rules,” he said.
“Rules are rules,” I agreed.
We slid into the booth and Miss Pearl suddenly appeared, leaning her hip on the table, her voice low.
“Thank you for not being idiots with wind and tents. Two dinners on my tab. Don’t argue, I always win. Tip in cash. If I drift toward your table, you’re being watched. If I smile and keep walking, you’re clear.”
She tucked a pen behind her ear and said, “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
With that, she vanished, hurrying off to accomplish a million tasks.
We both read menus we didn’t need. Ellis folded his, I flattened mine.
“The meatloaf special is good,” he said.
“You say that like a test.”
“It is,” he answered. “If you sauce it wrong, I walk.”
Miss Pearl returned.
“Meatloaf,” I said. “Biscuit plate, coffee.”
Ellis mirrored the same order.
She approved with a small nod that felt encouraging, then left us to the dishwasher’s loud cover.
We weren’t on a date; we were drawing a treaty.
My team, Brickyard Brewery, and his team, Signal House, would compete in public and cooperate in practice. Residency Week meant three finalists trying to use the same town square for taproom demos, live shoots, and candle workshops without turning it into a blooper reel.
We were here to hammer out press notes, safety notes, shared signage, and quiet hours. One shared playbook so the Commons looked intentional instead of chaotic.
If the town was going to watch us compete all week, the least we could do was sit down once and make sure nobody set the optics on fire.
“I have some ideas for press clarifications,” Ellis said. “Two sentences probably. I’d say one transparency, one safety.”
We started with the thing Riverfield cared most about after the Biscuit Fire: fairness and the fire code, in that exact order.
“Count the tokens,” I said with a cheeky grin.
“Counted,” he added, not missing a beat.
He was being a good sport about his aunt meddling with the tokens. I could respect that.
His thumbs moved, clean and quick.
“What about ‘All tokens were inventoried by the bank?’” I said. “We support count-the-tokens. Finalists are aligning lanes, quiet hours, and power so that the week stays beautiful and quiet by ten.”
“Swap ‘quiet’ for ‘boring’?” he asked.
“I like quiet.”
“Good,” he said with a smile. “People don’t love being called dull.”
He tapped his pen on the table, and the tendon along his wrist lifted like a drawn line.
I told my eyes to knock it off, but they refused to obey.
“Last call by 9:59,” I said, hearing my own voice, louder now for some reason.
He watched my mouth when I said 9:59. I didn’t allow myself to think about that either.
We started working because that was the safest thing I knew how to do.
Ellis typed. “Stroller parking inside on your side?”
“Inside,” I said. “Bike rack outside the brick shop. Dogs welcome, paws off benches. The signage will read: ‘Batteries included’.”
“Battery romance,” he said, not looking up. “Outlets?”
“Don’t snake across the walkways,” I answered.
“Keg delivery?”
“Before eight AM. Trash pull after close. It’ll be quiet. If the pickup needs the lane, I text you and Wyatt first.”
“Who should be in the text chain?” Ellis asked.
“Three numbers.”
I recited mine. He recited his. We added Wyatt. Ellis fired off a text.
My phone pinged with its usual tone.
Wyatt: Received. Don’t be dumb. –W
We were not smiling. But we were also… smiling.
“Lantern,” Ellis said under his breath, soft enough that only I could hear.
Someone must’ve been approaching behind me.
A couple in matching #TeamBrew pins suddenly arrived at the booth and the woman beamed, “We love you, Cade! Photo?”
I flipped into public rival mode.
“Scowl or smile?” I asked the couple.
“Scowl,” the man said, grinning at Ellis.
“I’m the villain this season,” Ellis said helpfully.
“Not tonight you’re not,” the woman laughed as she lifted her phone. “Three, two—”
We scowled politely. The camera clicked. They thanked us and moved on, all smiles and glee.
Dinner arrived: meatloaf square, biscuit plate glistening with just the right amount of butter, and coffee that smelled strong enough to power an entire project.
The food runner asked, “Do y’all need anything else?”
Ellis thanked her by name. A small thing that wasn’t entirely small. Something in my chest unhooked, the way a strap does.
We ate like normal people for a minute. Heads down, appreciative noises. My fork did geometry, I squared what didn’t need squaring. I lined up salt and pepper the way I lined up cones.
“Stop tidying,” Ellis said, his dimples like a trap.
“Operational hazard,” I said, my voice nearly cracking. “If I’m still, I start thinking.”
“What’s the thinking tonight?”
“Power,” I said. “Wind. People.”
I didn’t say you.
“We can move some things around if the forecast lies,” Ellis said. “You can run your demo inside?”
“Canopy stays,” I said. “Sandbags only. No stakes on the Commons. If it gets flirty, we add weight.”
Ellis stopped eating for a moment and stared at me. “You talk about wind like it’s a person.”
“It is,” I answered. “It’ll help you out for an hour, then change its mind and take half your setup with it.”
He laughed low. Not a broadcast laugh. A back-booth one.
“Lantern,” I said as I noticed someone approaching.
Ellis’s laugh dropped instantly.
A vendor appeared, apology already on his face. “Quick question, Cade—do we need a second permit if we put a table near the fountain for flyers?”
“No,” I said, placing my fork on my plate. “Keep it off the bricks and out of the sightline. If a stroller can’t pass, it’s wrong.”
Ellis translated for the civilian ear. “Picture a stroller and a dog meeting. If they’d have to share breath, you need to move your table.”
“Got it,” the vendor said, and skittered away, relieved.
“Why do you do that?” I asked when we were alone.
“Do what?”
“Translate.”
“It’s my job,” he answered. “Say the same thing differently so that people will hear it.”
“That’s not nothing,” I said, before I could stop myself.
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 the Pitch & 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.
Ellis paused for a moment as if he weren’t sure if he could say what he wanted to say.
“Lantern Room at nine-fifteen?” he asked. “For Beck’s lighting test.”
I’d completely forgotten that Beck was running a test for some interior shots of the hotel.
I’d never been in the Lantern Room before—it was hidden somewhere within The Langford Hotel and intended as a bar and backroom for Riverfield’s elite.
I nodded. “I’ll walk the lane and meet you after. If press pokes, we’ll just say we’re… aligning distribution.”
He smiled and said, “True.”
“True,” I echoed.
Miss Pearl reappeared with the check in a leather folder that looked older than the town courthouse. She tapped it twice.
“You redeemed together,” she said, satisfied. “Count the tokens. Tip in cash.”
“We’ll fight you for the bill,” Ellis said.
“You won’t win,” she replied, already pivoting to tell a man his to-go cup came with a lid.
We each slid a twenty under the clip and stared at the folder.
“Separate doors?” he asked.
“Separate doors,” I answered.
Optics.
But that didn’t account for the way my pulse had started to race every time we came close to touching.
We stood at the same time, did the polite dance, and still brushed shoulders because the aisle only had so much room.
A kid in a TEAM brEW shirt barreled in with fries. I caught the tray, cleared him through, and handed it back intact.
Habit.
When I looked up, Ellis was watching me as if he’d been waiting to confirm something.
Outside, Riverfield had cooled to porch weather. Streetlights breathed on the bronze peach. Post-roast, pre-bed.
We tried to stand casually on the sidewalk as if there was no tension.
Ellis reached for his phone when I did, then didn’t. I didn’t either. I was good at moving, less so at standing still when I wanted to make a move.
“Seven-thirty,” he said, professional and clean. “Curb.”
“I’ll be there.”
A woman in a #TeamSignal T-shirt breezed by with a to-go bag.
“Y’all play nice,” she said in a cheerful voice. She looked at Ellis and added, “Make us famous.”
Then she looked back at me and said, “Make us safe.”
“We’re trying,” I said.
“We will,” he added.
She nodded and was on her way.
“Night, Cade.”
“Night, Ellis.”
We peeled off in different directions—him through the side door, me along the quiet edge of the Commons.
Twenty feet later, my phone buzzed.
Ellis: Good dinner. Thanks for keeping it level and rescuing me from townspeople’s questions.
I stopped under a lamppost and typed the thing that was honest and safe.
Me: Didn’t rescue. Kept you steady. 7:30.
Three dots, then a pause, then:
Ellis: Steady works. Don’t make me wait.
My shoulder tingled and warmed.
Me: I won’t.
A beat passed as I waited.
Ellis: Night, neighbor.
Me: Night.
I pocketed my phone and looked up toward the sixth floor of The Langford Hotel.
One of those windows was his, the next one over was mine. Walls thin enough to hear a laugh.
I told myself two things and filed them where I keep the rules that mattered: I am straight. I am also not a liar.
At the corner, Miss Pearl had stepped out to refresh the sidewalk board—Meatloaf Plate. Cast Iron always posts the night special out on the curb.
Without looking up at me she said, “Sleep, darlin’. You’ve got morning to mind.”
“Copy.”
“And Cade?” she said.
“Hmm?”
“Eyes forward, sugar,” she added, the smile in her voice doing the wink for her. “Pretty neighbors make for clumsy footing.”
I cleared my throat. “Working on it.”
“Work faster,” she said, still not looking at me. “Beautiful weather makes people forget themselves.”
The board wobbled as she wrote on it.
I walked to the hotel with empty hands and a time I wasn’t going to miss stamped loudly in my head: 7:30.