Chapter Eight #2
Talia’s eyes moved to Marin.
Marin’s eyes moved to Crew.
Crew felt the idea arrive before anyone said it.
No.
Absolutely not.
Then Marin said, “We make a bet.”
Crew stared at her.
Talia slowly grinned.
Mrs. Paxton whispered, “Oh my.”
Eddie whispered, “That sounds viral.”
Crew’s stomach tightened.
“What kind of bet?”
Marin’s gaze held his.
“We set a goal for the final fifteen minutes. If people hit it, Captain Problem does something embarrassing.”
Crew blinked.
Everyone looked at him.
He should have said no.
He wanted to say no.
Instead, he saw the number in his head.
Seventeen percent.
He saw his father sitting in the recliner, pretending lightheadedness was a personality quirk.
He saw Marin’s bakery ceiling dripping into mixing bowls.
He saw the way she laughed when her mother said the bakery lived.
“What embarrassing thing?” he asked.
Marin’s mouth curved.
Not kindly.
Good.
Kindly might have killed him.
“I have ideas.”
Talia whispered, “America needs this.”
Crew kept his eyes on Marin.
“No couple stunt.”
Her smile faded.
“I know.”
“No kissing.”
Something moved between them.
Fast.
Hot.
Painful.
“I know,” she said.
Crew’s throat went dry.
The room got very quiet.
Talia suddenly became fascinated by her phone.
Mrs. Paxton studied the ceiling.
Eddie pretended his hidden clipboard contained state secrets.
Marin looked away first.
Crew did not count that as a victory.
There were no victories here.
Only moments survived.
Marin tapped the legal pad.
“If we hit the goal, you let the winning donor choose from a list.”
Crew braced.
“What list?”
“One: you wear a full patriotic bakery uniform at parade rehearsal.”
Crew frowned. “Define full.”
“Apron. Star headband. Possibly temporary flag tattoos.”
“No.”
“Then raise the roof without me.”
He exhaled.
“What else?”
“Two: you let Mason teach you internet safety on camera.”
“That seems fair.”
“Three: you do a dramatic reading of one Frankie-approved apron pun.”
“No.”
Talia gasped. “Yes.”
“No,” Crew repeated.
Marin’s eyes lit with wicked triumph.
There she was.
Not hurt.
Not guarded.
Not overwhelmed.
Marin.
Sharp and funny and alive.
He would read every terrible pun in America if it kept that look on her face.
So he made himself sigh.
“One pun.”
Talia clutched her chest.
Mrs. Paxton looked ready to ascend.
Marin wrote it down.
Crew leaned slightly closer to read.
She angled the pad away.
“No looking at my notes.”
“I was checking accuracy.”
“You were being tall near my business.”
“Is that against the agreement?”
“It will be in the revision.”
He almost smiled.
So did she.
Then Eddie’s phone rang.
He answered, listened, and gave a thumbs-up.
“Roof company confirms deposit deadline. Noon tomorrow. If we pay, they start staging tomorrow afternoon.”
Mrs. Paxton pressed both hands to her mouth.
The room changed.
The joke remained, but urgency slid under it.
Noon tomorrow.
Less than twenty-four hours.
Crew looked at Marin.
She was staring at the donation board.
Eighty-three percent.
Her jaw set.
He knew that jaw.
It meant she had already decided to bleed if necessary.
“Marin,” he said quietly.
She looked at him.
“We set boundaries and keep them.”
Her eyes sharpened, like she hated that he knew what she needed to hear.
“Right,” she said.
“You’re not the product.”
Her throat moved.
“The aprons are.”
“And the cupcakes.”
“And possibly your humiliation.”
He nodded. “Fair.”
Her eyes held his.
“Crew.”
“Yeah?”
“If this goes sideways—”
“I’ll take the hit.”
“No.”
He stopped.
She stepped a little closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
He waited.
Marin’s voice lowered.
“If this goes sideways, we end it. Together. No martyr act. No captain speech. No deciding what protects me without asking.”
The correction landed deep.
Not a slap.
A hand on the wheel.
Together.
Not because they were a couple.
Not because Honeybrook wanted them to be.
Because she was offering him a role with conditions.
Crew understood how careful that offer was.
How much it cost.
He nodded.
“Together,” he said.
Marin held his gaze for one second longer than necessary.
Then she looked away and clapped her hands once.
“All right. We need a livestream announcement.”
Talia saluted with her phone. “On it.”
Mrs. Paxton straightened her visor. “No hearts.”
“No hearts,” Marin confirmed.
Eddie lifted his clipboard again.
Marin pointed without looking.
“Eddie.”
He lowered it.
“I feel targeted.”
“You brought office supplies into a bakery emergency.”
“This is a veterans center.”
“Not today.”
Crew’s phone buzzed.
Again.
Wilder.
Wilder: Frankie has puns ready for approval. Sutton says only one is survivable.
Crew hesitated.
Then showed Marin.
She read the message and closed her eyes.
“Fine. Send them.”
Crew typed:
Crew: Send the survivable one.
Frankie replied:
Frankie: WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEAKS, MAKE CUPCAKES.
Marin stared at it.
Crew stared at it.
Talia leaned in and made a face.
Mrs. Paxton said, “That’s actually charming.”
Marin groaned. “That is the worst part.”
Crew’s mouth twitched.
Marin looked at him.
“Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You liked it.”
“I survived it.”
“You liked it.”
“A little.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling.
Not fully.
Not safely.
But enough.
Crew put the phone away before Frankie could ruin the moment with a second pun.
They spent the next hour building the announcement.
Not a post.
A launch.
Marin hated that word until Talia pointed out launches raised money, and then Marin allowed it under protest.
The announcement went live at 2:00 p.m. sharp.
The image was simple: Captain Problem apron on a clean counter, a cupcake beside it, and the veterans center roof fund sign in the background.
No faces.
No hearts.
No couple language.
Caption:
TONIGHT AT 7:30 — ONE NIGHT TO SAVE THE ROOF
The Honeybrook Veterans Center has a chance to begin roof repairs before the Fourth if the full deposit is raised by noon tomorrow.
Join Webb & Whisk, Crew Donnelly, the Spitfires, and the Honeybrook Fourth Committee for a controlled-chaos fundraiser livestream.
Apron preorder relaunch. Team donation match.
Signed cupcake-box auction. Final fifteen-minute challenge.
For the roof. Obviously.
Marin read it three times before approving.
Crew read the comments as they came in.
I’m in.
Donation link?
Captain Problem returns.
For Tom.
For the roof.
Obviously.
Then Dotty commented:
No hearts. But I am emotionally invested.
Marin stared at it.
Then, very reluctantly, liked the comment.
Crew saw.
She pointed at him. “Say nothing.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“You’re smiling with your shoulders.”
“I’ll work on that.”
The post moved fast.
Faster than the apron post.
Faster than the gazebo photo.
Not because it hinted at romance.
Because it had a deadline.
A goal.
A reason.
And yes, because it had Marin and Crew in the comments without being in the photo.
People loved gaps.
Crew was learning this against his will.
By three, the Spitfires had posted their match challenge.
No graphics of Crew and Marin.
No romance jokes.
Just a team photo and a caption:
We caused some chaos. Now we’re helping fix a roof. First $1,000 donated during tonight’s livestream gets matched by the Spitfires. Keep it kind. Keep it roof-focused.
Wilder’s personal comment underneath said:
My bad. My money.
Sutton replied:
Growth.
Frankie replied:
ONE PUN AT 7:30. I HAVE BEEN RESTRAINED BY LAW AND FRIENDSHIP.
Marin read that and muttered, “I respect Sutton more every hour.”
Crew texted Sutton:
Thank you for your service.
She replied:
You owe me snacks and maybe legal fees.
By five, the fundraiser was at eighty-seven percent.
By six, eighty-nine.
By six fifteen, Crew went home to change, check on his father, and collect the signed cupcake boxes.
He found Tom in the recliner, exactly where he had promised to remain, with Mrs. Bell sitting across from him knitting something red and suspicious.
Tom looked up.
“You look less panicked.”
“I’m not.”
Mrs. Bell peered over her glasses. “That was a lie.”
Crew ignored her.
Tom smiled. “Livestream at seven thirty?”
“Yes.”
“I signed the boxes.”
Crew saw them stacked on the coffee table. Ten white bakery boxes, each signed in neat black marker:
With gratitude — Sgt. Tom Donnelly
Crew’s throat tightened.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Tom watched him.
“Marin okay?”
Crew exhaled and sat on the edge of the couch.
“No.”
Tom nodded. “But?”
“But she’s choosing it.”
“Good.”
“I’m scared she’s choosing it because she feels responsible for everyone.”
Tom’s eyes softened.
“She is.”
Crew looked up.
Tom continued, “So are you.”
Crew’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not good.”
“No,” Tom said. “But it can be honest if you admit it.”
Crew leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“I don’t want to use her.”
“Then don’t.”
“I don’t want the town watching us.”
“Then keep pulling them back to the roof.”
“I don’t want to leave again.”
The words left before Crew could stop them.
The room went still.
Mrs. Bell stopped knitting.
Tom’s face changed.
Not surprised.
Not exactly.
More like he had been waiting for Crew to say the thing out loud.
Crew looked at his hands.
“I don’t know what that means yet. I don’t know what hockey looks like after next season. I don’t know where I’ll be. I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know if she’ll ever want me in her life past Saturday.”
His voice roughened.
“But I know I don’t want to be a man who survives by leaving anymore.”
Tom was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “That’s a better start than a promise you can’t keep.”
Crew swallowed.
Mrs. Bell dabbed one eye with her knitting.