Chapter One #2
She ignored that completely.
Mrs. Paxton had raised four sons, chaired six committees, and once convinced the town council to approve a Christmas parade in weather that involved sideways sleet. The word no was decorative to her.
She slapped the flyers onto the counter.
Across the top, in giant red letters, they read:
HOMETOWN HERO WEEK: CREW & MARIN KICKOFF PHOTO TOMORROW!
Under that was Crew’s Brookfield headshot.
Beside it was a photo of me holding a cupcake tower at last year’s fundraiser.
Between our faces was a tiny heart.
A tiny heart.
I stopped breathing.
Crew leaned closer.
Saw it.
Then went very still.
Mrs. Paxton beamed. “The printer added the heart.”
“The printer,” I repeated.
“Yes. Isn’t that sweet?”
“No.”
Crew said, “Mrs. Paxton—”
“Crew Donnelly.” She abandoned the flyers and pulled him into a hug so fast even Captain Calm could not defend himself. “Look at you. Your father is going to be so pleased.”
Crew’s face changed at the mention of his dad.
Not softened.
Opened.
Just for a second.
That was the unfair part.
The impossible part.
Tom Donnelly was the reason none of this could be simple.
He was the reason I had agreed to bake five hundred cupcakes for the fundraiser even though July and buttercream were natural enemies.
He was the reason I had joined the committee.
He was the reason Honeybrook had turned the entire Fourth into a veterans center roof campaign with bunting.
Retired Marine. Former youth coach. The man who taught half this town how to skate on the frozen pond behind the elementary school. The man who had driven me home once after Crew forgot, no questions asked, no judgment offered, just a quiet, “You deserve steady, kid.”
He was also sick enough that everyone had started saying things like final Fourth in lowered voices.
Crew hugged Mrs. Paxton back carefully.
“I’m glad to be home,” he said.
The sentence hurt.
I looked away.
Mrs. Paxton released him and turned to me. “Marin, ticket sales are through the roof. The online buzz is a blessing.”
“It is a hostage situation with hashtags.”
“Exactly. Modern marketing.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart, the veterans center roof has leaked twice this month.”
Low blow.
Accurate blow.
Still low.
I crossed my arms. “Do not roof-guilt me before noon.”
Mrs. Paxton patted my hand. “I would never.”
She absolutely would.
She already had.
Crew stepped beside me, not too close. “Mrs. Paxton, Marin did not ask to be pulled into this.”
“I know,” Mrs. Paxton said.
Her voice gentled.
That was worse.
“We all know. But people are excited. They love your father. They love you. And Marin, they love you too. This town has watched you two grow up. They remember.”
My throat tightened.
“I wish they would stop.”
Mrs. Paxton gave me a sympathetic look.
Not pity.
Worse.
Understanding.
I hated being understood in public.
Crew’s hand shifted at his side like he wanted to reach for me.
He did not.
Good.
Bad.
Both.
Mrs. Paxton slid one flyer toward us. “One photo tomorrow. No pressure.”
I pointed at the heart. “This is pressure in graphic-design form.”
“The heart can be removed.”
“It should be burned.”
“I’ll call the printer.”
Crew picked up one of the flyers.
The tiny heart sat between us like a threat.
“This doubled ticket sales?” he asked.
“More than doubled,” Mrs. Paxton said. “And the sponsor dinner is suddenly full. People are even donating online. One woman from Ohio wrote, ‘For the second-chance hockey couple.’”
I closed my eyes.
Crew said nothing.
I knew what he was thinking.
I hated that I knew.
His father.
The roof.
The fundraiser.
The town.
The money.
The cost of saying no.
Crew had always carried everyone’s needs like they were equipment bags he could just keep adding to one shoulder.
It was one of the things I had loved about him.
It was one of the things that had crushed us.
Because at some point, being needed by everyone meant he stopped noticing who needed him as a person instead of a solution.
Mrs. Paxton’s phone rang.
“Oh, that’s the banner company. Nobody move.”
She walked toward the front window, answering with, “Yes, but can we make the blue more heroic?”
Talia’s head popped out of the office. “I heard roof guilt.”
“Go inventory something.”
“I inventoried my concern.”
“Put it on a shelf.”
She disappeared again.
Crew looked at me.
“I can shut this down,” he said.
My heart twisted.
Because he would.
If I asked him to, he would call Mrs. Paxton, the festival account, Wilder, the local paper, his mother, maybe the governor if someone gave him the number. He would stand between me and every camera.
And the veterans center would lose money.
His father would pretend not to care.
The committee would panic.
The town would whisper anyway.
And I would still be the girl who got dragged into the story.
I looked at the flyer.
Then at Crew.
Then at the patriotic cupcakes in the case.
One of them had frosting leaning sideways like it too had heard the plan and wanted to leave.
I picked it up and held it out to him.
Crew looked at it.
Then at me.
“What is this?”
“Your warning cupcake.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“If you or your emotionally unsupervised hockey friends turn me into content again, the next one goes in your face.”
He accepted the cupcake cautiously.
“Is this poisoned?”
“No.”
“Emotionally?”
“Possibly.”
He took a bite.
Slowly.
Like a man with a death wish and excellent eye contact.
My heart did something stupid.
Absolutely not.
He swallowed.
“Vanilla?”
“Patriotic almond.”
“It’s good.”
“I know.”
His mouth curved. “I missed your cupcakes.”
There it was.
Too easy.
Too familiar.
Too dangerous.
I snatched the flyer off the counter.
“One photo,” I said.
Crew froze. “What?”
“One gazebo photo. For your dad. For the fundraiser. Not for you. Not because Wilder Knox has the self-control of a toddler with Wi-Fi.”
“Understood.”
“No couple language.”
“Agreed.”
“No touching.”
“Fine.”
“No looking at me like that.”
His brows drew together. “Like what?”
“Like you’re remembering things.”
He went still.
Too still.
The air shifted.
The bakery noise faded. The cooler. Mrs. Paxton by the window. Talia very obviously listening from the office.
Crew’s voice dropped.
“I am remembering things.”
My chest tightened.
Oh, that was unfair.
Three years, and he still knew how to say one quiet sentence like it had weight.
Mrs. Paxton turned around, phone still at her ear. “Wonderful news! The banner company can add both your names by five.”
“No,” I said.
Crew said, “Absolutely not.”
We looked at each other.
For one second, we agreed completely.
Then both our phones buzzed.
The festival account had posted the flyer.
With the tiny heart.
The caption read:
Honeybrook’s favorite almost-couple is back for Hometown Hero Week. Come support the veterans center, the Fourth Festival, and maybe a second chance.
I stared at the post.
Crew stared too.
Comments were already appearing.
I KNEW IT.
They were always endgame.
This is better than cable.
Does Marin still have his hoodie?
Crew looked at me slowly.
I looked back.
The cupcake in his hand was half-eaten.
The flyer was on the counter.
The tiny heart glowed like a crime scene.
“One photo,” I said again.
Crew’s mouth pressed flat.
Then his phone buzzed one more time.
A message from Wilder.
WILDER:
In unrelated news, #TheViralBet is trending locally.
I picked up the frosting knife.
Crew immediately stepped between me and Mrs. Paxton.
And for the first time since he walked into my bakery, I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then I looked down at the trending tag.
#TheViralBet
My private life had a hashtag.
My ex-boyfriend had a warning cupcake.
The town had a fake second-chance romance campaign.
And somehow, by tomorrow morning, I had to stand beside Crew Donnelly under a gazebo and pretend none of that made me want to scream into a mixing bowl.
Crew looked at me.
Careful.
Guilty.
Still too calm.
“Marin,” he said. “We can fix this.”
I pointed the knife at him.
“No,” I said. “We can survive it.”