Chapter Seven #3
Mom: Plumber found the issue. Small supply line leak above ceiling. Stopped. Ceiling tile damage only. No major structural damage. Bakery can reopen tomorrow after sanitation check. I am buying wine.
My knees nearly gave.
Crew saw.
His hand lifted slightly, then stopped.
I turned the phone toward him.
He read it.
Relief moved across his face so clearly it almost hurt.
“Good,” he said.
My throat tightened.
“Good.”
Talia grabbed the phone from my hand, read it, and shouted, “The bakery lives!”
Eddie cheered.
Mrs. Paxton burst into fresh tears.
Crew smiled.
And I—because I was tired, relieved, sugar-shocked, and emotionally compromised—laughed.
Not a polite laugh.
Not a sarcastic one.
A real one.
It escaped before I could stop it, bright and shaky and ridiculous.
Crew looked at me.
The smile fell from his face, but not because he was unhappy.
Because he was hit.
Because he had not heard that sound from me in three years.
I knew it.
He knew I knew it.
The room blurred again, but this time not from panic.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not here.
Not in front of Mrs. Paxton and Eddie and Talia and the ghost of every pancake breakfast ever held in this building.
I cleared my throat and looked at Mrs. Paxton.
“Tomorrow’s meet-and-greet can move here.”
She lit up.
“But no couple language.”
“None.”
“No hearts.”
“Never again.”
“No surprise cameras.”
“Approved media only.”
“No calling it a team.”
Mrs. Paxton blinked.
Talia looked at the ceiling.
Crew looked at me.
Too late.
I heard what I had said.
No calling it a team.
Because it was starting to feel like one.
I grabbed a towel and wiped the counter aggressively.
“Everyone stop looking at me.”
Nobody moved.
“I mean it.”
Eddie lifted his hidden clipboard slowly. “Can I write down the schedule now?”
I pointed at him.
He lowered it.
“Right. No clipboards.”
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He checked it.
His expression shifted.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the screen to me.
A message from Wilder.
Wilder: Quiet team support update: we are coming tomorrow. Sutton says no livestreams, no graphics, no emotional surveillance. Frankie is bringing snacks and legally distinct apron puns.
Below it, Frankie had added:
Frankie: CAPTAIN PROBLEM HAS ENTERED HIS DOMESTIC UTILITY ERA.
Talia cackled.
Mrs. Paxton looked intrigued.
I looked at Crew.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking the team could come.”
“They asked.”
“They are chaos.”
“Yes.”
“They caused this.”
“Wilder caused this.”
“And Frankie screamed second-chance summer.”
“Yes.”
“And now she’s bringing apron puns.”
“Legally distinct ones.”
“Crew.”
He tucked the phone away.
“Your call.”
I hated those words.
I loved those words.
I needed those words.
That was becoming a problem.
I looked at the empty trays.
The donation total.
The kitchen we had just turned into a functioning emergency bakery.
“Fine,” I said.
Crew’s eyebrows rose.
“Fine?”
“They can come tomorrow.”
Talia clapped once.
“But,” I added sharply, “if Wilder Knox so much as looks at a phone with romance in his eyes, I will put him on dish duty until Labor Day.”
Crew nodded.
“I’ll tell him.”
“And Frankie is not allowed to name anything.”
“Good luck with that.”
“And Sutton supervises everyone.”
“That was already implied.”
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was a notification from the Webb & Whisk account.
Talia had posted the pickup update with a photo of the sold-out apron table and the veterans center donation sign.
Caption:
Emergency bakery relocation complete. Roof fund at 83%. Honeybrook, you showed up. For the roof. Obviously.
No hearts.
No couple.
No Crew.
Perfect.
Then I saw the first comment.
From Dotty.
DottyDaily: No hearts today. But I saw the way he carried those cupcake trays.
I closed my eyes.
Crew read it over my shoulder.
His voice came low, amused and guilty.
“I did carry the trays.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him.
“You are not helping.”
“I know.”
“No. You are helping. That is the problem.”
His expression changed.
Softened.
My heart thudded once.
The room around us kept moving, but this tiny pocket of space went still.
Crew said quietly, “I can stop.”
The offer landed exactly where it hurt.
Because he meant it.
Because he would.
Because if I told him to leave the fundraiser, the kitchen, my bakery, my life, he would probably do it this time.
Not because he wanted to run.
Because I asked.
That should have felt like power.
It felt like grief.
I looked away first.
“No,” I said.
The word was barely loud enough to hear.
But Crew heard it.
Of course he did.
“No?” he asked.
I picked up an empty tray.
“We still need the roof.”
His eyes stayed on my face.
“Right.”
“For Tom.”
“Right.”
“For the town.”
“Yes.”
“And because you’re weirdly good at carrying trays.”
His mouth curved.
“Useful skill.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Never.”
“That is a lie. You played hockey.”
“Moderate cockiness.”
“Better.”
Talia appeared beside us with two trash bags.
“If you two are done negotiating tray-based intimacy, we need cleanup.”
I grabbed a trash bag from her.
“I regret giving you keys to my life.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you with benefits.”
“Emotional or dental?”
“Depends on the day.”
Crew took the other trash bag.
“Where do you want this?”
The question was innocent.
Completely innocent.
I looked at him.
At the apron.
At the flour.
At the man who had come back with all my old hurt in his hands and somehow spent the morning helping me save cupcakes for a roof.
Where do you want this?
I had no idea anymore.
I pointed to the side door.
“Dumpster.”