Chapter Five
Marin
By six o’clock, the Captain Problem apron had developed a fan base.
This was not my fault.
Mostly.
Fine.
It was slightly my fault because I had made the apron.
But in my defense, I had made it at 3:42 p.m. while emotionally unsupervised, which was apparently contagious.
The apron was navy blue, because Crew Donnelly deserved to look like a walking hockey brand, and across the front in white vinyl letters it said:
CAPTAIN PROBLEM
Underneath that, in smaller letters:
VOLUNTEERED FOR CONSEQUENCES
Talia had taken one look at it, put both hands over her mouth, and whispered, “I have never been prouder of another woman.”
Mrs. Paxton had called it “spirited.”
Dotty had called it “content.”
I had called it “legally therapeutic.”
Now it hung from my hand as I stood behind the donor table at Webb & Whisk and watched Main Street become a scene I had not approved.
The veterans center cupcake fundraiser was supposed to be simple.
Cupcakes. Donation jars. Raffle tickets. A small table with flyers about the roof repair. Maybe a few pictures of Tom Donnelly from past Fourth parades. Reasonable. Contained. Public-service adjacent.
Instead, Mrs. Paxton had somehow turned my bakery into the center of a patriotic emotional hostage situation.
There were balloons outside.
Balloons.
Red, white, blue, and one silver balloon shaped like a star that kept smacking the window every time the air-conditioning kicked on, as if even the decorations were trying to escape.
A hand-painted sign stood beside the door.
WARNING CUPCAKES FOR THE VETERANS CENTER
ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF PROCEEDS TO THE ROOF FUND
That part I liked.
The rest of the sign was the problem.
In the bottom corner, someone had drawn a tiny hockey stick crossed with a whisk.
And a heart.
A very small heart.
Almost microscopic.
Like Mrs. Paxton believed I would not notice because it was the size of a sprinkle.
I noticed.
I always noticed.
“I’m going to sandpaper that heart off with a lemon zester,” I said.
Talia, who was arranging cupcakes into neat rows, did not look up. “You can’t sandpaper with a lemon zester.”
“Watch me.”
“You are very tense.”
“I am hosting a fake-couple cupcake fundraiser with my ex-boyfriend while local news maybe films it. Tension is my most logical accessory.”
Talia placed a tray of red velvet cupcakes in the center of the table.
“Your most logical accessory is eyeliner, but continue.”
“I hate everyone.”
“You made him an apron.”
“I hate him thematically.”
“You used vinyl lettering.”
“I own supplies.”
“You measured the spacing.”
“I have standards.”
“You muttered ‘perfect’ when you finished.”
“I was referring to the alignment.”
Talia’s smile spread slowly.
I pointed at her. “Do not romanticize my rage crafting.”
“I would never.”
“You are actively doing it with your face.”
The bell over the door jingled.
My stomach dropped before I turned.
That was insulting.
My body had no right to identify Crew Donnelly by doorbell.
But there he was.
Crew walked into Webb & Whisk exactly on time because of course he did. Six o’clock meant six o’clock to him. Not 6:03. Not 5:58. Six. The man probably arrived at emotional crises with a clipboard in his soul.
Not an actual clipboard.
I had rules.
He wore dark jeans again and a plain gray T-shirt that fit in the completely unnecessary way shirts sometimes fit men who trained for hockey and ruined local peace.
His hair was dry now, pushed back like he had tried to tame it and lost a small, dignified battle.
He carried nothing but his phone and a face that said he knew he was walking into a trap and had come anyway.
Good.
I wanted that for him.
He stopped just inside the door.
His gaze swept the bakery once.
The donation jars.
The cupcake table.
The balloons.
The sign.
Me.
He paused on me for half a second too long.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for me to want to adjust my shirt, my hair, my entire personality.
I did none of those things.
“Hi,” he said.
Talia leaned toward me. “That was a very dangerous hi.”
“Stop narrating.”
“It had regret and shoulders.”
Crew’s mouth twitched.
“You heard that?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“Develop worse hearing.”
“I’ll try.”
“You keep saying that like effort excuses inconvenience.”
“It hasn’t so far.”
Talia pointed a cupcake at him. “He learns.”
“No,” I said. “He observes patterns and weaponizes humility.”
Crew looked at the apron in my hand.
His expression changed.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
A man walking toward a known sentence.
“Is that for me?” he asked.
“No. It’s for Captain Problem.”
“That does appear to be me.”
“Unfortunate how self-awareness arrives after the damage.”
“Very fair.”
He stepped closer to the donor table.
I lifted the apron.
He looked at the words.
Read them once.
Then again.
His eyes lifted to mine.
There was laughter there.
Warm.
Reluctant.
Not public-laughter Crew from the gazebo. Not old Crew from high school. This was something quieter. Something he was trying not to hand me because he knew he had no right to make me smile.
Rude of him.
“I volunteered for consequences?” he asked.
“You did.”
“When?”
“When you were born tall and avoidant.”
Talia coughed.
Crew’s mouth lost the fight.
He smiled.
Fully.
Briefly.
Devastatingly.
The bakery lights did something unfair to his face. Or maybe his face did something unfair to the bakery lights. Either way, I felt several customers notice and mentally assign us a theme song.
Absolutely not.
I shoved the apron at him.
“Put it on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My brain tripped over that.
I recovered instantly.
Mostly.
Crew took the apron and unfolded it.
The neck strap got twisted.
For one glorious second, Captain Perfect had a normal human struggle with fabric.
I should have enjoyed it.
I did enjoy it.
Then he reached behind his back to tie it, and the motion pulled his T-shirt across his chest and shoulders in a way that made several laws feel inadequate.
Talia leaned into my ear.
“Remember when I said hot but emotionally unavailable?”
“Shut up.”
“You nailed it. Unfortunately, so did he.”
Crew finished tying the apron and turned back around.
Captain Problem sat across his chest like a prophecy.
The bakery went quiet for exactly one beat.
Then someone near the door snorted.
Then someone else laughed.
Then Dotty, who had materialized by the window like a gossip-based ghost, lifted her phone.
“Crew!” she called. “Can I get a picture of the apron?”
“No,” I said.
Crew said, “Only if Marin approves.”
Every eye turned to me.
That was new.
Usually Honeybrook asked forgiveness from the person least likely to use a whisk as a weapon.
Now Crew had handed the decision back to me in front of the room.
Again.
I hated how good he was getting at that.
I also hated that I liked it.
I crossed my arms.
“One photo of the apron,” I said. “Not us. Not my face. Not a candid. Not a video. Not a reel. Not a boomerang. Do not test me with formats.”
Dotty nodded with the solemnity of a woman receiving military orders.
“One apron photo.”
Crew turned slightly so the text was visible.
Dotty snapped the photo.
I watched her post it.
Watched.
Like a hawk with frosting privileges.
The caption appeared thirty seconds later.
Captain Problem has reported for cupcake duty. All proceeds from tonight’s Warning Cupcakes go to the Honeybrook Veterans Center roof fund.
No hearts.
No couple language.
No second chance.
I blinked.
“Well,” Talia said. “Look at Dotty experiencing supervision.”
Crew glanced at me.
“Okay?” he asked.
No concern voice.
No pressure.
Just asking.
I nodded once.
“Okay.”
The word felt too small for the way his shoulders eased.
People moved forward then, the fundraiser finding its rhythm around us.
Mrs. Paxton stationed herself by the donation jars with raffle tickets and a smile that could extract cash from stone.
Talia managed the pastry case. I boxed cupcakes.
Crew handed orders across the table and thanked every person like they were doing him a personal favor.
Which was extremely annoying because he was good at it.
Not flashy.
Not charming in the obvious way.
Just steady.
Present.
He remembered names. Asked Mr. Alvarez if the chairs were holding up.
Told Mrs. Bell her grandson had a future in internet safety lectures.
Thanked the firefighters for coming. Listened when an older veteran in a faded Navy cap told him a three-minute story about Tom fixing a stubborn flagpole in the rain.
Crew did not rush him.
He did not look over his shoulder.
He did not perform for the phones that occasionally lifted and quickly lowered when I looked their way.
He just listened.
That had always been his most dangerous quality.
The world got loud around Crew, and Crew got quiet enough to make people feel heard.
It was unfair.
It was attractive.
It was completely unacceptable.
“Marin,” Talia murmured beside me as I reached for another bakery box.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m monitoring customer service.”
“You are monitoring forearms.”
“I am monitoring brand integrity.”
“His forearms are not your brand.”
“They are damaging the theme.”
“They are improving donations.”
I looked at the jar.
She was not wrong.
The large glass container labeled ROOF FUND had been half full at six fifteen.
At six forty, it was nearly overflowing with cash, checks, and one folded note from Mason the internet child that said:
Sorry I yelled kiss her. Here is 2 dollars.
I had taped it to the side of the jar because I respected growth.
A woman from Channel Seven arrived at 6:47.
I knew she was from Channel Seven because she had a microphone, a camera operator, and the professionally pleasant expression of someone who could smell human-interest content from two counties away.
Mrs. Paxton intercepted her at the door with both hands out.
Crew looked at me.
I looked at him.
He untied the apron.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Taking myself out of the visual.”
That stopped me.
He folded the apron neatly and set it under the counter.
Without the apron, he was just Crew again.
Worse, maybe.
Because the joke had been armor.