Chapter Two #2
Tom had always had a soft spot for her. He used to keep butterscotch candies in his jacket pocket and pretend he was sneaking them to Marin like she was still eight years old and not the scariest fifteen-year-old at the Honeybrook Fall Bake-Off.
He was the one who had told her she deserved steady.
Crew had been standing ten feet away when he said it.
He had spent three years wondering whether Tom had looked at him after that on purpose.
Marin touched the edge of a cupcake liner.
Her voice came out sharp, but quieter.
“I am not a prop.”
“No,” Crew said immediately.
Everyone looked at him.
He did not care.
“You’re not.”
Something flickered across Marin’s face.
Not forgiveness.
Not even close.
But she heard him.
Crew stepped out from in front of Mrs. Paxton and faced the committee chair fully.
“No couple language,” he said.
Mrs. Paxton blinked. “Well—”
“No second-chance captions. No heart graphics. No hints. No using Marin’s name without her approval. No tagging her bakery unless she says yes.”
Marin’s head turned toward him.
Crew did not look at her.
If he looked at her, he would remember things.
He was already remembering things.
Marin at seventeen, stealing fries off his plate and pretending it was taxation.
Marin at nineteen, sitting on the hood of his truck during fireworks, saying she hated how the whole sky got loud and beautiful and then disappeared.
Marin at twenty, holding a paper cup of coffee outside the bus station while he promised distance was temporary.
Temporary.
He had used that word.
Like a coward.
Mrs. Paxton adjusted her flag visor. “Crew, dear, I understand your concerns, but the town is very excited.”
“The town can be excited about the fundraiser.”
“It is.”
“Good.”
“And about you two.”
“No.”
Marin made a soft sound.
Crew finally looked at her.
Big mistake.
Her eyes were on him in a way he could not read. Not soft. Not warm. Not safe.
But not untouched.
That was worse.
Mrs. Paxton sighed. “We only need the public interest to last through the Fourth.”
Crew’s phone buzzed again.
This time, it was not the group chat.
It was his father.
Dad: Heard you made it to town. Also heard you caused a riot at the bakery. Proud of you.
Dad: Tell Marin I said hello.
Dad: And tell her I’m sorry people are being people.
Crew’s throat tightened.
Marin saw that too.
“What?” she asked.
He handed her the phone.
He should not have.
It was too personal.
Too familiar.
Too much like before, when their phones had passed between them without thought. Look at this. Read that. Answer my mom. Tell Wilder he’s an idiot. See what Dad said.
Marin took it carefully.
Her eyes moved over the screen.
Her face changed.
Not a lot.
But enough to hurt.
She handed it back.
“How is he?” she asked.
Crew’s fingers closed around the phone.
There were many answers.
Fine.
Tired.
Stubborn.
Still making jokes.
Still pretending doctor appointments were errands.
Still wearing his Marine Corps hat to the grocery store because people liked it, not because he wanted attention.
Still the strongest man Crew knew.
Still not as strong as Crew needed him to be.
“He’s Dad,” Crew said.
Marin looked away first.
That felt deserved.
Talia cleared her throat.
“I’m going to say something nobody asked me to say.”
Marin pointed at her. “Don’t.”
“Great, I’m saying it.” Talia lifted both hands. “This is a disaster.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s also already happening.”
“I hate when you start accurate.”
“And if you don’t control the story, Honeybrook will control it for you.”
Crew hated that she was right.
He hated more that Marin knew it.
Marin crossed her arms. “You think I should do it.”
“I think,” Talia said carefully, “that you care about Tom. You care about the veterans center. You care about this town even when it acts like a toddler with Wi-Fi.”
Mrs. Paxton whispered, “That one is also very good.”
Marin ignored her.
Talia went on. “And I think if you walk away, people will still talk. If you participate, at least you can set rules.”
Marin’s gaze cut to Crew.
“Rules,” she repeated.
Crew felt his body brace.
He had known this was coming.
Marin loved rules when she did not trust people.
Three years ago, after he left, he had learned through Talia’s Instagram that Marin had implemented a one-date maximum for hockey players, banned bus-station goodbyes from all personal conversations, and renamed his contact in her phone to Do Not Answer Unless He Is On Fire.
He had never asked whether it was true.
He had deserved it either way.
Marin moved behind the counter and grabbed a receipt pad.
Not paper.
A receipt pad.
Crew almost smiled.
Almost.
Marin Webb drafting emotional terms and conditions on bakery receipt paper was exactly the kind of detail that could wreck him if he let it.
She uncapped a pen with her teeth.
Crew looked away.
Immediately.
Too late.
Talia saw.
Her eyebrows shot up.
Crew looked at the ceiling like it had answers.
The ceiling had patriotic bunting.
Unhelpful.
Marin slapped the receipt pad onto the counter.
“One photo,” she said.
Mrs. Paxton opened her mouth.
Marin lifted the pen without looking at her.
Mrs. Paxton closed her mouth.
“One gazebo kickoff photo,” Marin continued. “No touching.”
Crew nodded.
“No almost-couple.”
“Agreed.”
“No second chance.”
“Agreed.”
“No hearts.”
Mrs. Paxton looked personally injured.
Marin added, “Especially tiny ones.”
Mrs. Paxton sighed.
Crew nodded again.
“No livestreams,” Marin said.
“Absolutely,” Crew said.
“No surprise posts.”
“Yes.”
“No letting Wilder Knox within one hundred yards of a phone.”
Crew considered this.
“That may require federal support.”
“Then call Congress.”
Talia snorted.
Marin wrote something down.
Crew tried to read it upside down.
She angled the pad away.
“No looking at my notes.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was assessing pen pressure.”
“You were being Captain Serious.”
“That is not a crime.”
“It is in my bakery.”
Mrs. Paxton leaned toward Talia. “Were they always like this?”
“Worse,” Talia said.
Crew stared at the cupcake display.
Marin’s pen paused for half a second.
Then she kept writing.
“No looking at me like you’re remembering things,” she said.
Crew’s lungs forgot their job.
The bakery noise thinned.
Outside, a truck rolled past with something rattling in the bed. Somewhere in the kitchen, an oven timer beeped once and stopped. The air smelled like sugar, butter, lemon glaze, and every summer he had lost.
Crew looked at Marin.
He meant not to.
He really did.
Her chin was lifted. Her shoulders were squared. Her eyes dared him to make it a joke.
He could not.
“I am remembering things,” he said.
Talia went silent.
Mrs. Paxton put one hand to her chest again, but this time she did not speak.
Marin’s pen stopped.
For one second, Crew saw it.
The hit.
The tiny break in the wall.
Then she looked down and wrote so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper.
“Then stop.”
Crew swallowed.
“I’ll try.”
Her eyes snapped back up.
“No. Try is for people with reasonable teammates and private lives.”
“Marin.”
“No concerned voice.”
“That wasn’t concerned.”
“It was worse.”
He knew.
It had been honest.
He had to stop doing that.
Honesty had consequences.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, Marin pointed at it with the pen. “If that’s Wilder, block him.”
Crew checked.
Not Wilder.
His father again.
Dad: Also Mrs. Paxton just texted me a flyer with a heart.
Dad: You okay?
Crew stared at the message.
That was Tom Donnelly. Being honored by the whole town while quietly asking if his son was okay because a flyer had a heart.
Crew typed back.
Crew: I’m okay.
Crew: Marin is armed with frosting.
Dad: As she should be.
Dad: Be kind to her.
Dad: She was always better to you than you deserved.
Crew went still.
Marin noticed.
Again.
“What now?” she asked.
Crew locked the phone.
“Dad says hi.”
“You’re lying by omission.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re getting more efficient.”
He deserved that too.
Mrs. Paxton checked her own phone and made a small delighted noise.
Marin pointed the pen at her. “I don’t like that sound.”
“What sound?”
“The sound of a committee woman seeing numbers.”
Mrs. Paxton tried to hide the phone against her vest.
Talia leaned. “Oh no.”
Crew’s shoulders tightened.
“What?” Marin asked.
Mrs. Paxton gave them a smile so bright it should have required a permit.
“Well, Dotty says the kickoff post has reached six thousand people.”
Marin’s mouth fell open.
Crew frowned. “Honeybrook has four thousand people.”
“Exactly!” Mrs. Paxton said. “We’re expanding.”
“To where?” Marin demanded. “Neighboring zip codes with poor judgment?”
“And the festival account gained eight hundred followers.”
Marin gripped the pen.
Crew watched the plastic bend.
Mrs. Paxton continued quickly, “And channel seven may want a small human-interest segment before the parade.”
“No,” Crew said.
“No,” Marin said.
Talia made a choking sound. “Channel seven?”
“Possibly only online,” Mrs. Paxton said, as if that made it better.
Marin laughed once.
Crew did not like that laugh.
It had no humor in it.
“I need a minute,” Marin said.
Then she turned and walked into the kitchen.
The swinging door flapped behind her.
Crew looked after her.
Every instinct in him said follow.
Every deserved consequence said don’t.
Talia’s voice cut in low. “Do not.”
Crew looked at her.
Talia’s expression had changed. The snark was still there, but underneath it was steel.
“You don’t get to chase her back there because you feel bad.”
Crew nodded once.
Fair.
Talia stepped closer, keeping her voice down. “She rebuilt her life after you. This bakery? This town? The committee that drives her insane? She made a place here. And now everybody’s acting like her life was just waiting for your dramatic return.”
Crew looked at the kitchen door.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Talia studied him for a long second.
Then she said, “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean emotionally. Physically, unfortunately, you got worse.”
Crew blinked.
Talia sighed. “Taller. Broader. Stupid jaw. It’s annoying.”
Despite everything, Crew almost laughed.
Talia did not.
“Don’t make this harder for her.”
“I won’t.”