Chapter Five #4
“One preorder batch,” I said. “Limited. All proceeds to the veterans center. No couple language. No hearts. No photos of us modeling it.”
Crew nodded.
“Yes.”
“And you are not allowed to be charming about it.”
His eyes warmed.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your best is the problem.”
Talia made a small delighted sound.
I ignored her.
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He looked down.
Then froze.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the screen toward me.
A text from Wilder.
Wilder: I know I am banned from helping, but Frankie made a sample merch graphic called CAPTAIN PROBLEM: THE APRON THAT SAVED A ROOF and Sutton says it is “annoyingly viable.”
Below it was an image preview.
Crew did not open it.
I stared at his phone.
Then at Crew.
Then at the apron.
Somewhere outside, fireworks practice cracked in the distance.
One bright pop.
One warning shot.
I took the phone from Crew’s hand.
Opened the image.
And immediately regretted every decision that had led me to this kitchen, this man, this week, and this emotionally unsupervised hockey franchise.
Because the graphic was good.
Really good.
Red, white, and blue.
Clean.
Funny.
Fundraiser-forward.
No hearts.
No couple language.
Just a navy apron, bold lettering, and a tiny cupcake wearing a hockey helmet.
I hated it.
I loved it.
I hated that I loved it.
Crew watched my face.
His voice was careful.
“Bad?”
I looked at him.
Then at the apron.
Then at the phone.
“No,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted.
I handed the phone back like it had personally betrayed me.
“It’s worse.”
Talia leaned in. “Worse how?”
I picked up the Captain Problem apron and shoved it against Crew’s chest.
“Worse,” I said, “because it might actually work.”
Crew’s hands closed over the apron.
Over mine.
Just for one second.
Not planned.
Not performative.
Not for a camera.
Warm skin.
Old reflex.
New silence.
Neither of us moved.
The bakery disappeared around the touch.
Talia did not make a sound.
Crew looked down at our hands.
Then at me.
His voice came rougher than before.
“Marin.”
I let go first.
Fast.
Like the apron had burned me.
Maybe it had.
I stepped back.
My heart was loud.
Too loud.
Absolutely not.
I looked at Talia.
“Post the preorder form.”
Talia blinked. “Now?”
“Now.”
Crew was still watching me.
I did not look at him.
Could not.
Because fake dating him in public was turning out to be survivable.
It was private moments that were going to ruin me.
Talia picked up her phone, already grinning.
“Caption?”
I grabbed a marker, wrote four words on the bakery order pad, and shoved it toward her.
Talia read it aloud.
“‘For the roof. Obviously.’”
Crew laughed softly.
I pointed the marker at him without turning around.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Mostly.
Talia posted the preorder link at 8:31 p.m.
By 8:34, we had sold fifty aprons.
By 8:37, one hundred and twelve.
By 8:42, Mrs. Paxton texted a string of crying emojis, which I chose to interpret as a medical event.
And by 8:46, Dotty posted a screenshot of the sold-out first batch with a caption I could not even be mad at because for once, it was true.
Captain Problem is saving the roof. Honeybrook may survive him after all.
Crew read it over my shoulder.
Too close.
Not touching.
Still too close.
“Marin,” he said quietly.
I did not turn.
“What?”
“The apron sold out.”
“I know.”
“That’s good.”
“I know.”
“We did something good.”
We.
There it was.
One tiny word.
One massive problem.
I turned then.
Slowly.
Crew stood close enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
The bakery was half-lit around us now, warm and emptying, the night pressing against the windows. Powdered sugar dusted the edge of his jaw, and the Captain Problem apron was folded over his arm like evidence.
His eyes were steady.
Too steady.
Too familiar.
I should have stepped back.
I did not.
“We sold aprons,” I said.
His voice dropped.
“For the roof.”
“Obviously.”
His gaze moved to my mouth.
Just once.
So fast I could have pretended not to see it.
I saw it.
Every nerve in my body saw it.
Then his eyes came back to mine, and the restraint there hit harder than if he had touched me.
He was waiting.
Not asking.
Not taking.
Waiting.
That was dangerous.
That was worse than charming.
That was the kind of thing a girl could mistake for safe if she had not already learned how badly safe could leave.
My phone buzzed between us.
I jumped.
Crew stepped back instantly.
Good.
Bad.
I looked down.
A new message from Mrs. Paxton.
Mrs. Paxton: Wonderful news! Since the apron fundraiser is such a success, Channel Seven wants to do a follow-up segment tomorrow.
I stared.
Another text appeared.
Mrs. Paxton: They specifically asked if Captain Problem and Marin could demonstrate cupcake decorating together.
I looked up.
Crew had read it over my shoulder.
His face went carefully blank.
Too carefully.
I lifted the phone.
“No.”
Crew’s mouth twitched.
“Agreed.”
“No decorating together.”
“Agreed.”
“No cameras.”
“Yes.”
“No chemistry.”
He looked at me.
The bakery went quiet again.
His voice came low.
“I don’t know how to promise that.”
My heart stopped.
Then restarted all wrong.
Talia whispered from across the room, “Oh, we are in danger.”
Crew did not look away from me.
Neither did I.
Outside, another practice firework cracked over Honeybrook, bright enough to flash against the bakery windows.
For one second, the whole room lit red.
Then dark.
Then Crew took one careful step back.
Like restraint cost him.
Like he wanted me enough to make not wanting me visible.
And I realized, with absolute horror, that Captain Problem was not the apron.
Captain Problem was standing in my bakery, looking at me like he remembered everything.
And this time, I was remembering too.