Chapter Five #2
“Why?” I asked.
His eyes held mine.
“You said you didn’t want to be a romantic subplot.”
I swallowed.
Around us, the bakery moved. Laughed. Bought cupcakes. Dropped money in jars. Talia pretended not to listen from nine inches away.
Crew lowered his voice.
“If they interview me, I’ll talk about Dad and the center. Not you.”
Something shifted in my chest.
Small.
Dangerous.
“You don’t have to take it off,” I said.
His eyebrows rose slightly.
I immediately regretted all language.
“The apron,” I clarified.
“I know.”
“Do not make that weird.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was mostly trying not to think anything.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It is difficult.”
The corner of my mouth betrayed me.
His gaze dropped to it.
Just for a second.
But that second had history.
Talia dropped an empty cupcake tray loudly onto the counter.
“Oops,” she said.
Crew stepped back.
Good.
Responsible.
Infuriating.
The reporter approached with Mrs. Paxton fluttering behind her.
“Hi,” the woman said. “I’m Lacey Morgan with Channel Seven. Are you Marin Webb?”
“I am,” I said, already exhausted.
“Your bakery is lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“And very busy tonight.”
“That’s the goal.”
She smiled. “Would you be willing to answer a few questions on camera about the fundraiser?”
I opened my mouth.
Crew did not move.
Did not answer for me.
Did not rescue me.
I looked at the camera.
Then at the donation jar.
Then at the veterans center flyers.
This, at least, was mine.
Not Crew.
Not us.
The bakery.
The fundraiser.
The center.
“Yes,” I said. “About the fundraiser.”
Lacey nodded. “Of course.”
Crew stepped back another foot, giving me space.
Too much space.
No.
Correct space.
My nervous system needed to file a complaint.
The camera light clicked on.
Lacey stood beside the cupcake table and smiled professionally.
“We’re here at Webb & Whisk in Honeybrook, where the community has come together for a sweet cause: raising money for much-needed repairs to the Honeybrook Veterans Center roof.”
Good.
Fine.
I could do this.
Lacey turned to me. “Marin, why was it important for your bakery to be involved?”
I looked at the camera.
Then past it, where Tom Donnelly had just entered the bakery.
My breath caught.
He wore his Marine Corps hat and a blue button-down shirt. Crew spotted him at the same time, and the entire shape of his face changed.
Less captain.
More son.
Tom saw Crew, then me.
He smiled gently.
Oh no.
Absolutely not.
Not feelings on camera.
I looked back at Lacey.
“The veterans center has always been more than a building,” I said.
“It’s where people in this town go when they need help, paperwork, a meal, a meeting, or just somewhere to sit with people who understand.
The roof needs repairs, and if cupcakes help even a little, then we’re going to make a lot of cupcakes. ”
Lacey smiled. “That’s beautiful.”
“It’s practical,” I said.
She laughed politely. “And Sergeant Tom Donnelly means a lot to this town.”
“He does.”
“And to you?”
The question was fair.
Still, my throat tightened.
I looked toward Tom again.
He was at the donation jar now, pretending not to read the Mason apology note while absolutely reading it.
“Yes,” I said. “He does.”
Lacey tilted her head. “What makes him special?”
Every answer felt too large.
So I chose the truest small one.
“Tom makes people feel like they still matter after the part of their life everyone else claps for is over,” I said. “That’s rare.”
Behind the camera, Crew went very still.
I did not look at him.
Lacey’s expression softened.
“That is rare.”
The interview should have ended there.
It did not.
Because human-interest reporters were trained by wolves.
Lacey’s smile warmed one degree.
“There’s also been quite a lot of online attention this week around you and Tom’s son, Crew.”
There it was.
I felt the bakery tense around me.
Not loudly.
But I could feel it.
The town listening.
Talia’s eyes narrowed.
Crew took one step forward.
I lifted one hand slightly without looking at him.
Stop.
He stopped.
Good.
“That attention has been unexpected,” I said.
Lacey nodded. “How are you handling it?”
With caffeine and violent pastry thoughts.
“I’m focusing on the fundraiser.”
“Of course,” she said. “But do you worry that the personal side of the story might overshadow the cause?”
Yes.
Constantly.
Also, thank you for bringing that up with a camera pointed at my pores.
I smiled.
Customer-service anger.
Weaponized.
“That’s why we’re keeping the focus where it belongs,” I said. “The veterans center. The roof repair. The people this place serves.”
Lacey shifted the microphone.
“And Crew?”
My smile did not move.
“What about him?”
A tiny pause.
Lacey knew she had touched a wire.
Unfortunately, she decided to lick it.
“Some online commenters have been calling this a second-chance romance. Is that accurate?”
The bakery went so quiet I could hear the star balloon slap the window.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
I could not look at Crew.
If I looked at him, the answer would show.
Not because it was yes.
Not because it was no.
Because it was both and neither and old and bruised and alive in ways I had not consented to.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Crew moved.
Not into the shot.
Beside it.
Just enough that Lacey’s eyes flicked to him.
“Can I answer that?” he asked.
Lacey looked delighted.
I looked alarmed.
Crew looked at me.
“Only if you want me to.”
Every person in the bakery waited.
The camera waited.
The town waited.
My traitor heart did something inconvenient.
I nodded once.
Crew stepped into frame, but not beside me.
Angled slightly away.
Like he refused to make us a picture unless I chose it.
Lacey turned the microphone toward him.
“Crew Donnelly, welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s been a lot of speculation about you and Marin this week.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you want to say about that?”
Crew looked into the camera.
Not at me.
Not at the crowd.
The camera.
“Yes,” he said. “Speculation doesn’t raise a roof. Donations do.”
A laugh moved through the bakery.
Relief, mostly.
Lacey smiled. “Fair enough.”
Crew continued, calm and steady. “Marin didn’t ask to be the story. She opened her business tonight to support the veterans center. That’s the story.”
He paused.
Then added, “She also makes the best cupcakes in Virginia, but that’s not speculation. That’s fact.”
A louder laugh.
Warmth moved through the room.
My chest moved with it.
Lacey laughed too. “You heard it here first.”
Crew looked at Tom.
“If people want to honor my dad,” he said, “they can buy cupcakes, donate to the roof fund, or show up for the center after the Fourth, when there aren’t cameras. That would mean more.”
The bakery went quiet again.
Different quiet this time.
Good quiet.
Lacey’s smile softened into something real.
“Thank you.”
Crew nodded and stepped back out of the shot.
No performance.
No glance at me to see if he had done well.
He just went back to the donor table and picked up the apron.
The Captain Problem apron.
Then he put it back on.
Like he was returning to his assigned consequences.
The interview ended three minutes later.
Lacey got footage of the cupcakes, the donation jar, Tom shaking hands, Mrs. Paxton explaining the roof repair without using the word “romance” once, and Talia telling the camera that Warning Cupcakes were “emotionally nonrefundable.”
By seven thirty, we had sold out of cupcakes.
All of them.
Every patriotic cupcake. Every lemon star. Every red velvet. Every Warning Cupcake. Even the slightly crooked vanilla ones I had put aside for staff.
Gone.
The donation jar held so much cash Mrs. Paxton had to replace it with a second jar.
At 7:42, Eddie Alvarez called from the veterans center to say the online donation portal had started climbing again.
Not because of the apology video.
Because of the Channel Seven teaser.
Local Bakery Helps Sweeten Veterans Center Roof Fund
No hearts.
No couple language.
No #TheViralBet.
Just the story.
I looked at Crew across the table.
He was boxing the last dozen cookies for a woman from Millstone who had driven over after seeing the fundraiser online.
His apron was dusted with powdered sugar.
His hair had fallen forward slightly. Someone had stuck a tiny flag sticker on his shoulder, and he either had not noticed or had accepted it as punishment.
Tom sat at a small table near the window with a cup of coffee, watching his son.
The expression on his face hurt to see.
Pride.
Love.
Worry.
Time.
I turned away before it could get inside me.
Too late.
The fundraiser finally thinned around eight fifteen. Mrs. Paxton left with two donation jars and a level of emotional satisfaction that made her visor look dangerous again. Dotty promised to post only approved fundraiser totals. Tom hugged me before leaving, one careful arm around my shoulders.
“You did good, kid,” he said.
I swallowed hard.
“Cupcakes did good.”
“No,” he said, leaning back to look at me. “You did.”
Then, quieter, “You don’t owe anybody more than you want to give.”
My eyes burned.
Tom Donnelly had terrible timing and excellent aim.
“I know,” I said.
He gave me a look.
The kind he used to give Crew when Crew claimed he had done homework that was very obviously unfinished.
“You’re learning,” he said.
Then he kissed the top of my head like I was still sixteen and furious at the world, and left with Eddie driving because Crew had insisted without making it sound like insisting.
Which was growth.
Annoying growth.
Talia left ten minutes later to deposit the credit card donation receipts in the office upstairs and “accidentally” give me and Crew five minutes alone.
Traitor.
The bakery was suddenly too quiet.
The tables needed wiping. The floor needed sweeping. The pastry case was empty except for crumbs and one fallen blue sprinkle. The star balloon smacked the window again, slower now, exhausted by its own patriotism.
Crew stood by the donor table, untying the apron.
I should have gone to the kitchen.
I did not.
He folded the apron and placed it on the counter between us.
“Do you want this back?” he asked.
“No.”