Chapter Nine
Marin
The livestream comments did not explode.
They detonated.
There was a difference.
Exploding implied noise.
Detonating implied impact, structural damage, and someone named Frankie using capital letters in a public forum.
Within the first thirty seconds, the viewer count jumped from eight hundred to twelve hundred, which was ridiculous because Honeybrook did not have twelve hundred emotionally available people.
I knew this because most of them came into my bakery before coffee and attempted to pay with exact change and trauma.
Talia stood behind the laptop with her hands raised like she was conducting an orchestra made entirely of bad decisions.
“Comments are moving fast,” she said.
“How fast?” I asked through my smile.
“Like Wilder near free snacks.”
Crew made a sound beside me.
Not a laugh.
A near-laugh.
Dangerous.
I kept my eyes on the camera.
“Welcome to One Night to Save the Roof,” I said brightly, because I was a professional, and professionals could panic while using excellent projection.
“We are live from the Honeybrook Veterans Center, where we are raising the final seventeen percent needed to secure the roof repair deposit before noon tomorrow.”
Crew stood beside me in the Captain Problem apron, looking unfairly composed for a man whose existence had become merchandise.
His hands rested on the table.
Three inches from mine.
Always three inches.
The internet had noticed.
Of course the internet had noticed.
Talia, reading from the comments, choked softly.
I did not look at her.
Looking at Talia during a live broadcast was like looking directly at the sun if the sun enjoyed gossip.
Crew glanced at the donation board.
“We started the night at ninety percent,” he said, voice steady and low enough that the room settled around it. “If we reach one hundred by the end of the livestream, the roofing company can start prep tomorrow afternoon. That means the center is protected before the Fourth.”
The comments shifted.
Less yelling.
More hearts.
I narrowed my eyes at the screen.
Not couple hearts.
Donation hearts.
Possibly allowed.
I would decide later.
Mrs. Paxton stood off camera with both hands clasped so tightly I worried she might sprain a finger. Eddie stood beside her, holding a stack of signed cupcake boxes with the solemnity of a man guarding classified pastry.
Talia pointed to the donation total.
“It’s moving.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Already ninety-one.”
Mrs. Paxton made a strangled sound.
I lifted one finger without turning. “No crying on the equipment.”
“I’m not crying,” she whispered.
“She is,” Eddie whispered.
“Eddie.”
“Sorry.”
Crew looked at the camera.
“First up, the apron preorder relaunch. All proceeds go directly to the roof fund.”
Talia slid one of the folded aprons across the table.
I picked it up and held it toward the camera.
“Back by extremely questionable demand,” I said. “The Captain Problem apron.”
The comments went feral.
Not wild.
Feral.
There were too many laughing emojis, several demands for international shipping, and one comment from Mason’s mother that said:
Mason wants one. We are still discussing internet boundaries.
Good.
Growth.
Crew looked at the apron like it had betrayed him personally.
I smiled sweeter.
“This limited batch says Captain Problem on the front.”
I flipped it around to show the lower text.
“And Volunteer for Consequences underneath, which is technically what happened.”
Crew’s mouth twitched.
“You assigned the consequences.”
“You volunteered by returning to Honeybrook with viral teammates.”
“Fair.”
Talia made a slashing motion across her throat, which I interpreted as stop flirting with the merchandise.
Rude.
Accurate.
I faced the camera again.
“We have one hundred aprons available tonight, and then the order form closes so I can sleep before the Fourth like a person with a nervous system.”
Crew nodded. “Healthy boundaries.”
The comments loved that.
Of course they did.
Captain Problem says healthy boundaries.
Captain Problem can volunteer for consequences at my house.
Does the apron come with Crew?
I leaned forward.
“No, the apron does not come with Crew.”
Crew coughed once.
Talia bent over behind the laptop, shoulders shaking.
I looked at Crew.
His ears had gone faintly red.
Oh.
That was delightful.
That was dangerous.
That was going in the private vault where I kept things I refused to enjoy.
“Moving on,” I said quickly.
“Please,” Crew said.
The comments exploded again.
The apron batch sold out in four minutes.
Four.
I stared at Talia.
She stared back.
“Sold out,” she mouthed.
Mrs. Paxton sat down in a chair someone had wisely placed nearby.
Crew leaned slightly toward me.
“Good?”
I looked at the donation board.
Ninety-three percent.
My chest squeezed.
“Good,” I said.
My voice came out smaller than expected.
Crew heard it.
His eyes moved to my face.
I smiled harder at the camera.
“Next segment,” I said, because emotions were not on the run sheet.
Talia stepped in from behind the laptop.
“Spitfires match challenge.”
The screen beside the livestream table switched to a graphic Sutton had approved, which meant it was clean, simple, and did not include Frankie’s original suggestion of a flaming roof with thumbs-up.
The graphic read:
SPITFIRES MATCH CHALLENGE
First $1,000 donated tonight gets matched by the team.
Keep it kind. Keep it roof-focused.
Under that, in smaller text:
Yes, Wilder is supervised.
I had approved that part.
Crew looked at the camera.
“My teammates caused some of this week’s chaos,” he said.
Somewhere off camera, Talia muttered, “Understatement.”
“And now they’re helping repair the damage,” he continued. “They’ll match the first thousand dollars donated during this segment. If you’re watching and able to give, this is the moment.”
The comments shifted again.
People started typing donation amounts.
Twenty dollars.
Fifty.
Ten from Mason’s allowance.
One hundred from Millstone Hardware.
Three hundred from an anonymous donor “for Tom and the roof.”
Then the Spitfires account commented:
Matched. Keep going.
Talia refreshed the donation page.
Her mouth dropped open.
“What?” I asked.
She looked up.
“Ninety-five.”
Mrs. Paxton made another sound.
Eddie put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Crew’s fingers flexed on the table.
Just once.
I saw it.
Hope was dangerous when it got close enough to have a number.
Ninety-five.
Five percent left.
The room felt suddenly too warm.
I reached for my water and missed it by an inch.
Crew moved the bottle closer without looking at me.
Small.
Simple.
Not for the camera.
I took it.
Our fingers did not touch.
The comments, unfortunately, noticed the bottle.
Someone typed:
He moved her water. I’m deceased.
I read it before I could stop myself.
My cheeks went hot.
Crew saw the comment too.
His jaw tightened.
Not embarrassed.
Restrained.
My heart did something idiotic.
I turned to the camera with my most lethal customer-service smile.
“Hydration is not romance. Please drink water.”
Talia whispered, “That needs to be on merch.”
“No,” I said, still smiling.
The comments screamed.
Crew looked down.
His shoulders moved.
Laughing silently again.
That should not have felt like victory.
It did.
The signed cupcake-box auction came next.
Eddie brought the first box forward, holding it like a museum artifact.
“This,” I said, “is one dozen Fourth cupcakes in a signed Webb & Whisk box, autographed by Sergeant Tom Donnelly.”
Crew added, “The cupcakes are not signed because my father has standards.”
The comments loved that too.
Tom appeared in the comments under what had to be Mrs. Bell’s account because his name was spelled Tomm Donnely.
Tomm Donnely: Frosting handwriting is undignified.
I laughed before I could stop it.
Not a business laugh.
A real one.
Crew looked at me.
The camera saw.
The comments saw.
America probably saw, if America had nothing better to do.
I felt the moment catch.
That was the danger of livestreams. A person could not snatch joy back once it had gone public.
Crew’s face softened.
Not enough for the audience.
Enough for me.
I looked away first.
“Opening bid is twenty-five dollars,” I said too quickly.
The first box went for two hundred.
The second for three hundred.
The third for five hundred from a local contractor who commented:
Tom fixed my porch after my surgery. Let me buy cupcakes.
Mrs. Paxton cried for real then.
No one told her to stop.
By the seventh box, the roof fund hit ninety-seven percent.
By the ninth, ninety-eight.
The tenth box went silent for a few seconds.
Then a donation came through from Anonymous for the full current gap.
Talia refreshed.
The donation board spun.
Everyone held still.
Ninety-nine.
Ninety-nine percent.
The room groaned.
“No,” I said. “Absolutely not. That is mathematically rude.”
Crew leaned closer to the laptop.
Talia refreshed again.
Still ninety-nine.
Mrs. Paxton looked seconds from either fainting or forming a subcommittee.
Eddie said, “How are we one percent short?”
“Because websites are cruel,” Talia said.
Crew looked at the camera.
“We’re close,” he said, captain voice back in place. “One percent away.”
The comments flooded.
But the donation total did not move.
Maybe the system lagged. Maybe people were maxed out. Maybe ninety-nine was the universe’s idea of comedy.
I gripped the edge of the table.
One percent.
After all of this.
After the leak, the aprons, the team match, Tom’s boxes, Mrs. Paxton’s tears, my bakery’s ceiling, Crew’s stupid helpful hands.
One percent short.
Talia checked the run sheet.
“Final challenge,” she said softly.
The final fifteen-minute bet.
Right.
The embarrassing Crew options.
I had nearly forgotten, which was absurd because humiliating Crew was normally a very sticky priority.
Now the idea felt different.
Less funny.
More intimate.
Because the whole room had seen him carry trays and move water and take blame and ask permission and stand there in my insult apron like he was willing to be useful in whatever form I allowed.
I could still make him wear flag tattoos.
I could still make Mason teach him internet safety.