Chapter Six
Crew
Crew Donnelly had never been afraid of frosting until Marin Webb put a piping bag in his hand and looked at him like she expected betrayal.
That was new.
Not the betrayal part.
The frosting part.
“This,” Marin said, holding up a second piping bag with surgical seriousness, “is buttercream.”
Crew looked at the bag in his hand.
White frosting pressed against clear plastic. Metal tip. Twisted end. Apparently dangerous.
“I know what buttercream is.”
“No, you know what buttercream tastes like. That is different.”
Talia nodded from behind the counter. “Respect the medium, Captain Problem.”
Crew glanced at the navy apron tied over his shirt.
The apron had become worse overnight.
Not physically. Physically, it was the same insult Marin had crafted in a moment of beautiful rage.
Digitally, it had multiplied.
The preorder batch sold out in sixteen minutes.
The second batch, approved by Marin at 11:04 p.m. with the text I hate all of you but fine, sold out before Crew finished brushing his teeth.
By morning, the official fundraiser total had jumped high enough that Mrs. Paxton sent a voice memo that mostly consisted of crying, laughing, and one muffled “Dotty, do not add hearts.”
So now, at 9:00 a.m., Crew stood in Webb & Whisk wearing the apron while Marin taught him cupcake decorating under conditions that could only be described as hostile domesticity.
There were no cameras.
That had been Marin’s first rule.
Crew had supported it immediately.
Channel Seven could film the finished cupcakes later. Dotty could photograph the apron stack. Mrs. Paxton could talk about the roof fund. But nobody was filming Marin teaching Crew anything with frosting because, according to Marin, “Honeybrook has not earned instructional intimacy.”
Crew had no idea what instructional intimacy meant.
He had a few theories.
Most were dangerous.
Marin pointed to his hand.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Crew adjusted his grip.
“Still wrong.”
He adjusted again.
“Worse.”
“I haven’t squeezed it yet.”
“I can feel the future.”
Talia leaned on the pastry case, grinning. “She can. It’s a gift and a burden.”
Crew looked at Marin.
She wore a pale blue apron over a white shirt, jeans, and an expression that suggested she had stayed up too late, thought too much, and blamed him for both. Her hair was pulled back today in a low ponytail, which should not have mattered. It mattered.
Everything mattered.
The small smudge of flour near her collarbone.
The way she braced one hip against the stainless-steel worktable.
The faint tiredness under her eyes.
The fact that she had texted him at 12:17 a.m. with one line:
Tomorrow is not a date. It is a roof-related pastry emergency.
Crew had replied:
Understood.
Then deleted it before sending because Talia had been right.
He had sent:
I’ll be there.
Marin had answered:
Wear the apron.
So here he was.
Wearing the apron.
Holding frosting.
Trying not to remember the way her hand had felt under his for one accidental second last night.
Failing.
Marin stepped closer.
Crew’s body noticed before his brain approved.
She reached for his hand.
Stopped.
Her fingers hovered over his.
That was somehow worse than touch.
“You need to hold it here,” she said, voice clipped.
“Okay.”
“Not too tight.”
“Okay.”
“Controlled pressure.”
He made the mistake of looking at her.
Her eyes lifted at the exact same time.
Controlled pressure.
The bakery air changed.
Talia made a sudden choking sound.
Marin jerked back like the piping bag had become electrically unsafe.
Crew looked at the cupcakes.
White paper liners.
Vanilla bases.
Tiny blank canvases waiting to expose him.
“Controlled pressure,” he said.
His voice sounded normal.
Barely.
Marin narrowed her eyes.
“Do not make frosting weird.”
“I didn’t.”
“You thought about it.”
“I think about many things.”
“That was suspiciously vague.”
“It was the safest available sentence.”
Talia pointed at him. “He is learning.”
Marin looked at Talia. “Stop rewarding him.”
“I’m not rewarding. I’m observing behavioral development.”
“This is not a rescue animal documentary.”
Crew looked down to hide his smile.
Marin saw it anyway.
Of course she did.
“First cupcake,” she said. “Start at the outside edge. Even pressure. Spiral inward. Lift at the top.”
“Sounds simple.”
“That’s how they get you.”
Crew positioned the piping tip at the edge of the cupcake.
Marin’s attention sharpened.
It was absurd how much he liked being watched by her.
Not the public watching. Not phones. Not Honeybrook turning his regret into a community event.
Marin.
Focused.
Judging.
Alive with skill.
This was her world. Her space. Her hands knew it. Her eyes knew it. The bakery moved around her like it understood who was in charge.
He had missed that.
No.
He had not missed it.
Missing implied something occasional.
This had been constant.
A low ache he learned to work around.
Crew squeezed the piping bag.
Frosting exploded sideways.
Not dramatically.
Not sitcom-level catastrophe.
But enough that a white stripe shot across the worktable and landed dangerously close to Marin’s elbow.
Silence.
Talia inhaled.
Marin stared at the frosting.
Then at him.
Crew lowered the piping bag.
“I can explain.”
“No, you cannot.”
“I applied pressure.”
“You attacked dairy.”
Talia lost it.
She turned away from the counter, shoulders shaking.
Crew looked at the table.
The frosting stripe looked accusatory.
“I’ll clean it.”
“You will stand still and think about what you’ve done.”
“That seems fair.”
Marin grabbed a clean towel and wiped the frosting with brisk, offended motions.
Crew watched her hands.
Bad idea.
He looked away.
Too late.
Marin’s voice cut in.
“Are you watching me clean?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m watching the process.”
“You are watching my hands.”
Crew shut his mouth.
There were, again, many ways to answer wrong.
Marin’s eyebrows rose.
“Interesting.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Oh, so you agree it is.”
Talia reappeared, wiping tears from under her eyes. “This is the best fundraiser content nobody is allowed to film.”
“No one is filming,” Crew said immediately.
Marin’s expression flickered.
Not soft.
Not quite.
But the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
Good.
That mattered.
He could do at least one thing right.
The bell over the door jingled.
All three of them froze.
Mrs. Paxton stepped inside wearing a red cardigan, her flag visor, and the hopeful expression of a woman trying to sneak chaos through customs.
Behind her stood Lacey from Channel Seven.
And behind Lacey stood a camera operator.
Marin turned very slowly.
“Mrs. Paxton.”
Mrs. Paxton lifted both hands. “Before you say no—”
“No.”
“I understand—”
“No.”
“Just one tiny—”
“No.”
Lacey smiled apologetically. “We were told there might be a decorating demonstration.”
Crew set the piping bag down.
Carefully.
Then stepped between Marin and the camera.
Not in front of Marin.
Not blocking her.
Just shifting enough to put himself closer to the problem.
He looked at Lacey.
“There’s no demonstration.”
Lacey lowered the microphone slightly.
Marin’s voice came from beside him.
“I said no cameras during prep.”
Mrs. Paxton’s face flushed.
“I thought maybe since the apron preorders—”
“No,” Crew said.
Mrs. Paxton looked at him.
He kept his voice even.
“This is Marin’s business. She set the condition.”
“I know,” Mrs. Paxton said, guilt already gathering in her eyes. “I just thought—”
“You thought attention would help,” Marin said.
Mrs. Paxton swallowed.
“Yes.”
Marin wiped her hands on her apron.
The room held still.
Crew could feel Marin’s anger, but he could also feel the exhaustion under it. The part of her that hated always having to say no twice. The part that knew the roof fund benefited every time she let the town take one more inch.
Lacey, to her credit, turned to her camera operator.
“Go ahead and step outside, Aaron.”
The camera operator backed out immediately.
Smart man.
Lacey looked at Marin. “I apologize. We don’t want to cross a line. We can film B-roll of the finished cupcakes later, or skip it completely.”
Marin studied her.
Then Mrs. Paxton.
Then Crew.
He said nothing.
Her call.
Finally, Marin said, “Finished cupcakes only. After eleven. No prep. No teaching. No behind-the-scenes.”
Lacey nodded. “Absolutely.”
Mrs. Paxton pressed a hand to her chest. “Thank you, Marin.”
Marin pointed at her. “You are on thin frosting.”
“I deserve that.”
“Yes, you do.”
Lacey smiled a little. “We’ll come back at eleven.”
She left.
The bell jingled again.
Mrs. Paxton stayed.
That was a tactical error.
Marin looked at her.
Mrs. Paxton looked at the frosting stripe still faintly smeared on the edge of the table.
“What happened there?”
“Captain Problem attacked dairy,” Talia said.
Mrs. Paxton’s eyes lit.
“No,” Marin, Crew, and Talia said together.
Mrs. Paxton sighed. “Fine.”
Then her phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
Crew saw the exact second her face changed.
Not excitement.
Concern.
“What?” he asked.
Mrs. Paxton looked up.
“It’s Tom.”
Crew’s entire body locked.
Marin went still beside him.
“What about him?” Crew asked.
“He’s fine,” Mrs. Paxton said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, Eddie says he’s fine. He got lightheaded at the center. Sat down. He’s refusing fuss.”
Crew was already moving.
He untied the apron with one hand, grabbed his keys from the counter, and headed for the door.
Marin was right behind him.
He stopped.
The movement almost made her run into his back.
Almost.
He turned.
“You don’t have to—”
Her face went sharp enough to slice the words in half.
“Finish that sentence and I’ll make you regret having teeth.”
Crew closed his mouth.
Better choice.
Talia grabbed Marin’s purse from behind the counter and tossed it to her.
“I’ll handle the bakery,” she said.
Marin caught the purse. “The cupcakes—”
“Are less important than Tom Donnelly, and if you argue with me, I’ll call your mother.”
Marin pointed at her. “Low.”
“Effective.”
Crew opened the door.
Marin walked through first.
Not because he was being heroic.
Because she was faster when furious.
They reached his truck in silence.