Chapter Eight
Crew
Crew Donnelly had played in front of packed arenas, hostile student sections, and one goalie’s mother who screamed “SHOOT IT” every time anyone touched the puck, including during warmups.
None of that compared to standing in the Honeybrook Veterans Center kitchen while Marin Webb decided to weaponize the internet.
Voluntarily.
That was the part making his chest feel tight.
Not the livestream.
Not the comments.
Not the fact that Frankie had somehow obtained Marin’s number and was now pitching fundraiser titles like a raccoon with Canva access.
Marin had chosen it.
That mattered.
It also scared him.
Because Crew knew Marin Webb.
She could make a decision look like confidence even when it cost her blood.
Across the kitchen, she stood with her arms folded, flour on her shirt, frosting at her wrist, and a look on her face that dared anyone to call her brave.
So, naturally, no one did.
Everyone in the room had survival instincts.
Even Eddie had hidden the clipboard.
Crew’s phone buzzed again.
Frankie: THE ROOF IS ON FIRE BUT LIKE IN A HELPFUL WAY?
Sutton: No.
Wilder: Too soon?
Cooper: Roof fire jokes are bad during a roof fundraiser.
Hayes: Put that on a shirt.
Beck: no
Junie: I vote “Raise the Roof” but quietly because it feels illegal.
Frankie: RAISE THE ROOF WITH CAPTAIN PROBLEM.
Sutton: I need everyone to breathe through their noses.
Milo: Crew, do you want us to actually help or just stop texting?
Crew: Both.
The dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then:
Milo: Fair.
Crew slipped his phone into his pocket and looked back at Marin.
She was talking to Talia now, fast and low, already shifting from emotional detonation into operations mode.
“We need a clean announcement,” Marin said. “Short. Fundraiser only. Roof deposit deadline. No romance. No teasing. No hearts. No ‘almost-couple.’ No ‘second chance.’ No tiny anything.”
Mrs. Paxton nodded so hard her visor nearly achieved flight.
“No tiny anything.”
Talia typed on her phone. “Platform?”
“Festival account,” Marin said. “Webb & Whisk account. Veterans center page. Not personal.”
Crew looked at her.
Not personal.
Right.
This had to stay not personal.
Which would be easier if his entire body did not react to the sound of her voice giving orders like she had a direct line to his pulse.
Eddie lifted one cautious finger.
“Are we calling this a telethon?”
“No,” Marin said.
“Livestream?”
“Better.”
“Virtual fundraiser?”
“Boring but safe.”
Talia looked up. “Boring but safe is not viral.”
Marin glared.
Talia shrugged. “You said this book needs to go viral.”
Crew blinked.
“What book?”
Everyone ignored him.
Talia continued, “People already care because it’s funny, messy, and actually for a good cause. You don’t have to add romance language. You just need the right hook.”
Marin looked annoyed because Talia was right.
Crew knew the feeling.
Talia was right often enough to be inconvenient and smug enough to make it worse.
Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands. “What about ‘One Night to Save the Roof’?”
Eddie nodded. “Direct.”
Talia made a face. “Sounds like a home renovation show where everyone cries in flannel.”
“Fair,” Eddie said.
Marin pressed her fingers to her forehead.
Crew watched the exhaustion move through her and took one half step closer before stopping himself.
Not his place.
Not unless she asked.
The thought still felt unnatural.
He was used to moving toward problems.
But Marin was not a problem.
She was a person he had hurt by treating his own fear like a private emergency and making silence her consequence.
He could stand near her.
He could help when invited.
He could not decide closeness was care.
Tom’s voice echoed in his head.
Let Marin decide what repair looks like.
Crew looked at the donation board.
Eighty-three percent.
Seventeen percent short.
By noon tomorrow, the full deposit could be paid.
The roof could be fixed before the Fourth.
His father could ride as grand marshal knowing the place he loved would be safe.
Marin’s bakery had leaked, and she still chose the center.
Crew’s chest tightened again.
This woman.
This impossible, sharp, loyal woman.
She had every reason to protect herself.
Instead, she was trying to protect everybody else too.
Marin turned suddenly and caught him staring.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do not look moved.”
Crew straightened. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was thinking.”
“With your sad lighthouse face.”
Talia gasped. “You told her?”
Crew looked at Talia. “You said it.”
“In private.”
“There has been very little privacy this week.”
Marin looked between them.
“What sad lighthouse face?”
Talia pointed at Crew. “That.”
“I only have one face,” Crew said.
“No one believes you,” Marin, Talia, Mrs. Paxton, and Eddie said together.
Crew looked at the ceiling.
The ceiling, unlike the bakery’s, remained intact.
Blessedly.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, it was his father.
Dad: Mrs. Bell says you and Marin are planning a livestream.
Dad: Mrs. Bell says this like I should be concerned.
Dad: Should I be concerned?
Crew typed back.
Crew: Probably.
His father replied:
Dad: Good. Concern means people are trying.
Crew stared at that.
Then:
Dad: Do not let Marin carry it alone.
Crew’s thumb hovered.
He wanted to say, I won’t.
But wanting had never been enough with Marin.
So he typed:
Crew: I’ll ask how she wants help.
The reply came a moment later.
Dad: Look at you learning.
Crew slid the phone away before his father could injure him further with approval.
Marin had moved to the counter with a legal pad.
No clipboard.
She wrote fast.
“Livestream segments,” she said. “We need structure. No dead air. Dead air invites comments.”
Talia nodded. “Opening: roof deadline, donation link, rules.”
“Then apron push,” Mrs. Paxton said.
“No couple modeling,” Marin said.
Crew lifted a hand. “I can model the apron alone.”
The room went quiet.
Marin stared at him.
Talia’s mouth opened.
Mrs. Paxton’s eyes went glossy with fundraising possibility.
Eddie whispered, “Brave.”
Crew looked at Marin.
Only Marin.
“If it helps,” he said.
Her expression changed.
Not soft exactly.
Complicated.
Which was becoming worse than anger.
Anger had edges.
Complicated had doors.
“Alone,” she said.
“Yes.”
“No posing.”
“I don’t know how to pose.”
Talia snorted.
Marin looked him up and down.
Too fast.
Not fast enough.
“You know enough.”
Crew’s body registered that before his brain could shut it down.
The air between them warmed.
Mrs. Paxton made a tiny sound.
Marin pointed at her without looking away from Crew.
“No.”
Mrs. Paxton closed her mouth.
Crew cleared his throat.
“Apron segment. Alone. No posing.”
Talia typed. “We’ll define no posing later, because he’s going to stand there and accidentally look like a man who can lift furniture.”
“I can lift furniture,” Crew said.
Marin looked at him again.
This time with open irritation.
“You are not helping.”
He was starting to understand that sentence had several meanings.
Talia continued, “Then cupcake auction.”
Marin nodded. “Limited edition dozen. Fourth colors. Signed box?”
“No,” Crew said.
Everyone looked at him.
He looked at Marin. “Not by us.”
Understanding crossed her face.
No collectible couple object.
No signature that turned them into proof.
She nodded once.
“Right. Signed by Tom?”
Crew’s throat tightened.
“That he would do.”
Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands. “Those will go high.”
“Good,” Marin said. “Then donation challenge.”
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He checked it.
Wilder.
Wilder: We want to donate as a team. Quietly or publicly, your call.
Crew looked at the message.
Then at Marin.
“My team wants to donate.”
Talia immediately lifted both hands. “Quietly is noble. Publicly raises money.”
Marin did not answer right away.
Crew held the phone out to her.
“Your call.”
She looked at the screen but did not take the phone.
Then she looked at him.
“That phrase is starting to annoy me.”
“Okay.”
“Because it works.”
His mouth twitched.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
“See? Growth.”
She took the phone.
Their fingers did not touch.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Marin typed something and handed it back.
Crew read the message she had sent to Wilder.
Marin: Public if you match-dare people and keep it about the roof. No romance. No jokes about me and Crew. No graphics without approval. Frankie gets one pun only if Sutton approves it first.
Wilder responded instantly.
Wilder: You are terrifying and fair.
Frankie: I ACCEPT THESE TERMS.
Sutton: I approve this governance structure.
Cooper: Best rules we’ve had.
Hayes: What happens if Frankie uses two puns?
Junie: Dish duty.
Beck: forever
Milo: We’ll match the first $1,000 during the livestream.
Crew looked up.
“They’ll match the first thousand.”
Mrs. Paxton made a noise like she had been struck by generosity.
Marin’s eyes widened.
Then she controlled it.
Of course she did.
“Good,” she said.
But her voice was softer.
Crew knew what that meant.
That number mattered.
The gap was shrinking.
Hope was becoming dangerous.
Mrs. Paxton grabbed a napkin and dabbed under one eye.
“I’m fine,” she said to no one.
Eddie nodded solemnly. “Structurally, no.”
Talia typed rapidly. “Team donation challenge goes after the apron pitch.”
Marin nodded. “Then Tom’s signed cupcake box.”
Crew’s phone buzzed again.
His father.
Dad: Mrs. Bell says I am signing cupcakes.
Dad: I am willing, but confused.
Crew sent back:
Crew: Boxes. Not cupcakes.
Tom replied:
Dad: Good. Frosting handwriting is where I draw the line.
Crew smiled.
Marin saw.
“What?”
“Dad accepts signing boxes, not cupcakes.”
Her face softened.
Just a little.
“He would hate frosting handwriting.”
“He said exactly that.”
For one second, they shared the same memory of Tom Donnelly being particular about things no one else cared about. Folded flags. Taped sticks. Proper tool storage. Not signing frosting.
Marin’s smile started.
Then she tucked it away.
Crew hated and respected that.
Mrs. Paxton cleared her throat. “What about the final segment?”
Everyone looked at her.
She lifted both hands quickly.
“Not romance. Not hearts. Not anything. Just… we need a final push.”