Chapter Three #2
“You are internally enjoying it.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
His mouth did that almost-smile thing.
Tiny.
Controlled.
Devastating.
A crime.
I picked up a warning cupcake and held it between us.
Crew’s gaze dropped to it.
Then came back to me.
“You raised the price.”
“Yes.”
“Smart.”
“Don’t approve of my business decisions while being the reason for them.”
“Understood.”
There was that word again.
Understood.
Clean. Calm. Respectful.
I wanted to throw something.
Not at him, necessarily.
Near him.
Near enough to establish weather.
Mrs. Paxton clapped once.
“Wonderful! Everyone is here.”
“No one is here voluntarily,” I said.
“Community spirit is often complicated.”
“Stop making tyranny sound like a quilt square.”
Talia choked on her coffee.
Crew looked at the floor.
His shoulders moved once.
He was laughing.
Silently.
I hated that too.
Because Crew laughing had always been rare treasure. Not loud. Not careless. Just a crack in the steady wall where warmth got out.
I had spent too many years trying to earn that sound.
I would not start again.
Mrs. Paxton pulled a folder from her purse.
I took a step back.
“No.”
“It’s only the media release.”
“No.”
“It’s standard.”
“So is food poisoning in gas station sushi, but I avoid that too.”
Crew stepped beside me at the counter, not too close.
Careful.
Always careful now.
That might have been worse than him being careless.
“Can I see it?” he asked.
Mrs. Paxton handed him the paper.
He read it.
All of it.
Because of course he did.
Crew Donnelly was the kind of man who read fine print, returned shopping carts, and probably flossed when sad.
I watched his face for the verdict.
His jaw shifted.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at Mrs. Paxton. “This gives the committee permission to use photos, video, audio, and written quotes across all platforms.”
Mrs. Paxton blinked. “Well, yes.”
“No,” Crew said.
Just that.
No drama.
No raised voice.
No frosting knife.
Just a calm wall landing between me and the committee.
The bakery went quiet.
Mrs. Paxton’s smile thinned. “Crew, dear—”
“We can agree to approved photos only,” he said. “No video unless Marin agrees before each event. No livestreaming her without consent. No quotes unless she approves the wording.”
He slid the paper back.
Mrs. Paxton took it like it had personally offended her.
Talia sipped her coffee and whispered, “Legally troubling.”
I looked at her. “Don’t.”
“I warned you.”
Crew glanced at me.
There was no smugness on his face.
No hero expression.
No look at me, I fixed it.
He simply turned to me and said, “Your call.”
My call.
Not ours.
Not the committee’s.
Not the town’s.
Mine.
The words did something inconvenient behind my ribs.
I hated that also.
Unfortunately, I was running out of emotional objects to hate and still had an entire day to survive.
I took the paper from Mrs. Paxton and grabbed a pen.
“Approved photos only,” I said.
Crew nodded.
“No video.”
He nodded again.
“No quotes.”
“Yes.”
“No calling this a second chance.”
His eyes changed.
Barely.
But I saw it.
That one hurt.
Good.
Maybe.
No.
Not good.
I signed the edited version anyway.
Mrs. Paxton watched my pen like I was drawing a mustache on the Constitution.
“There,” I said, handing it back. “One photo.”
“Wonderful,” she said faintly.
“One.”
“Of course.”
Talia leaned toward me. “She’s lying.”
“I know.”
Mrs. Paxton tucked the form away and brightened with visible effort. “Shall we?”
“No,” I said.
But I walked around the counter anyway.
Because that was the problem.
Because Tom deserved a full roof.
Because Honeybrook had shown up for me when Gran fell, when the bakery oven died, when I cried in the walk-in freezer and pretended I was inventorying butter.
Because I did not want Crew Donnelly back.
But I did want to be the kind of woman who could stand next to him in public and not fall apart.
We stepped outside.
Honeybrook had multiplied.
There were not dozens of people.
There were several dozen.
Which was too close to dozens for comfort.
The square sat at the center of town, all brick sidewalks and old trees and hanging baskets that had been aggressively watered by retired women with civic pride. The gazebo stood in the middle, wrapped in bunting and early Fourth decorations. Red, white, and blue ribbons curled around the railings.
A hand-painted sign leaned near the steps.
HOMETOWN HERO WEEK KICKOFF
SUPPORT THE HONEYbrOOK VETERANS CENTER
Under that, someone had added:
#THEVIRALBET
With a tiny heart.
Of course.
I stopped walking.
Crew stopped beside me.
He saw the sign.
His expression did not change much, but his left hand flexed once.
Good.
At least one of us was close to punching signage.
Someone in the crowd spotted us.
A teenage girl squealed.
Actually squealed.
I considered walking into traffic, but Main Street traffic was currently a mail truck and Mrs. Bell’s bicycle, so death seemed unlikely.
Talia appeared at my other side.
“Chin up,” she murmured. “You look hot and emotionally unavailable.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Crew stayed half a step away from me.
Enough space to prove he was listening.
Enough space to make the town notice the space.
I could feel the speculation forming.
Honeybrook did not need words.
Honeybrook could gossip through posture.
Mrs. Paxton hurried ahead, waving like a parade marshal who had misplaced the parade.
“Everyone, thank you for coming! We’re just taking one quick kickoff photo for the fundraiser!”
“Marin!” Dotty called from near the gazebo, phone already raised. “Can you stand closer to Crew?”
“No,” I called back.
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
Crew’s mouth twitched again.
“Do not laugh,” I said under my breath.
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“I am.”
“At least be ashamed.”
“I am also doing that.”
We reached the gazebo steps.
Up close, the bunting looked fresh, the flowers looked perfect, and the sign looked like it deserved consequences.
Mrs. Paxton positioned herself with the energy of a woman directing aircraft.
“Crew, you stand on Marin’s right.”
“No,” I said.
Mrs. Paxton paused. “Why?”
“Because that’s his good side.”
Crew looked at me.
“You remember my good side?”
I looked at him.
Mistake.
His eyes were too steady.
His face was too close.
The morning sun hit one side of his jaw and turned him from inconvenient to catastrophic.
“No,” I said. “I remember everything I resent.”
“That seems efficient.”
“I’m a business owner.”
“Right.”
“Also, you don’t have a good side.”
Talia coughed behind me. “Liar.”
I turned. “Unhelpful.”
“Accurate.”
A voice from the crowd called, “You two are cute!”
I pointed immediately. “No.”
The voice belonged to Mrs. Bell, who was standing beside her bicycle in a yellow cardigan and looking unapologetic.
“You are,” she said.
“I sell your favorite muffins.”
“And I support your business. Both things can be true.”
Crew looked like he was fighting for his life.
I looked at him. “Do not.”
His eyes dropped briefly.
His shoulders moved again.
He was absolutely laughing.
Silent.
Treacherous.
The crowd loved it.
I could feel them loving it.
That was the worst part. Not the laughter. Not the phones. Not the tiny heart. It was the way people saw chemistry and called it destiny because they had not been there for the aftermath.
They had not been in my apartment at 2:00 a.m. when I deleted texts I wanted to send.
They had not been in the bakery kitchen when I heard Crew’s name on a college hockey broadcast and burned an entire tray of hand pies.
They had not watched me build a life around the empty place he left and call it growth because pride was the only thing holding me upright.
The town wanted almost-couple.
They did not want almost-destroyed.
Crew’s laughter disappeared.
He must have seen my face.
Of course he had.
His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear.
“We can leave.”
I looked at him.
He meant it.
That was the problem.
Crew Donnelly had always been most dangerous when he meant things.
“You would do that?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Walk away from the fundraiser?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
The word hit too hard.
Too simple.
Too late.
I looked away first.
“No,” I said. “We’re taking the photo.”
“Marin—”
“For Tom.”
He went quiet.
Good.
Tom was the only name that could shut both of us up.
Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands. “Lovely. Just up one step, please.”
We stepped onto the gazebo.
The crowd shifted, phones rising like sunflowers with data plans.
Crew stayed beside me.
Not touching.
Not leaning.
Not looking at me like that.
Mostly.
Dotty squinted through her phone. “Can you two move a little closer? There’s a gap.”
“I like the gap,” I said.
“The gap looks hostile.”
“The gap is honest.”
Crew leaned slightly toward me. “We can maintain a respectful gap.”
“Thank you.”
Dotty lowered the phone. “Crew, honey, you look like you’re posing for a courthouse apology.”
Talia shouted, “That’s just his face!”
The crowd laughed.
Crew closed his eyes briefly.
I felt an uninvited smile tug at my mouth.
He opened one eye and caught it.
Just the corner.
Just enough.
His expression softened.
No.
Absolutely not.
I straightened.
Mrs. Paxton called, “Maybe one hand on the railing?”
I put both hands on the railing.
Crew put one hand on the railing.
Unfortunately, the gazebo railing had been built by someone who hated me personally.
His hand landed three inches from mine.
Not touching.
But close enough that I could see the faint scar across his knuckle from junior year, when he had fixed the bakery’s back door after a storm and refused to admit he had cut himself.
He still had it.
I should not have cared.
I cared.
Dotty raised the phone again. “Marin, smile.”
“I am.”
“That is not a smile.”
“It is in tax season.”
Crew made a sound beside me.
The crowd laughed again.
My mouth betrayed me and curved for real.
Dotty gasped. “There it is!”
Flash.
The photo happened.
Relief went through me.
Done.
One photo.
Finished.
Survived.
Then a small child near the front shouted, “Kiss her!”
Every adult in the square froze.
Every teenager lifted a phone higher.
Mrs. Paxton whispered, “Oh my.”