Chapter Eight #3
Crew looked at her.
She sniffed. “Allergies.”
Tom gave Crew a look.
“Told you. Runs through town.”
Crew laughed once.
It hurt.
But it helped.
At seven fifteen, Crew arrived back at the veterans center with the signed boxes, wearing dark jeans, a clean white T-shirt, and the Captain Problem apron folded over one arm.
The main room had been transformed.
Not fancy.
Honeybrook.
A long table held apron samples, cupcakes, donation jars, and a laptop ready for the livestream. Behind it hung the fundraiser sign. No hearts. No couple photos. Just the veterans center logo and a paper roof cutout showing the percentage.
Ninety percent now.
Ninety.
Crew stood still at the entrance, hit by the sight.
Marin stood near the table, checking the laptop with Talia.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
The room noise lowered.
She was wearing jeans and a red Webb & Whisk T-shirt, hair pulled back, blue apron tied at her waist. There was no flour on her now. No frosting. No chaos visible except in her eyes.
Crew walked toward her.
“Boxes,” he said, lifting them slightly.
“Great.”
“Dad signed all ten.”
Her face softened.
“Of course he did.”
Crew handed them to Eddie, who took them carefully.
Then Crew held up his apron.
“Where do you want Captain Problem?”
Marin stared at him.
Talia muttered, “Phrasing.”
Crew closed his eyes.
Marin’s mouth twitched.
A real twitch.
A dangerous one.
Crew opened his eyes and looked at Talia.
“I heard it.”
“Good,” Talia said. “Personal growth.”
Marin took the apron from him.
Their fingers brushed.
Barely.
Enough.
She stepped closer and lifted the neck strap.
Crew froze.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Putting you in uniform.”
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
She held his gaze.
There was a challenge in it.
And something else.
A choice.
Small.
Public enough to be nothing.
Private enough to be everything.
Crew lowered his head slightly.
Marin slipped the strap over his neck.
Her fingers brushed the back of his collar.
The contact was brief.
It still rewired him.
She stepped around him to tie the apron behind his back.
The room continued moving around them.
Talia talked to Mrs. Paxton.
Eddie arranged boxes.
Someone tested the microphone.
But Crew stood perfectly still while Marin Webb tied a rage-crafted apron around his waist like it was the most intimate thing he had ever survived.
Her fingers worked at the small of his back.
Quick.
Efficient.
Not touching him more than necessary.
He felt every second anyway.
“You okay?” she asked quietly from behind him.
The question hit so unexpectedly he almost turned.
He did not.
Barely.
“Yes.”
“You look tense.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
Her fingers paused on the knot.
The silence between them changed.
Then she said, just as quietly, “That’s not what I asked.”
Crew’s throat tightened.
He looked straight ahead at the donation sign.
Ninety percent.
“I’m scared,” he said.
Her hands stilled.
The words were not captain words.
Not public words.
They were a man’s words.
Bare and poorly armored.
“Of the livestream?” she asked.
“No.”
She did not ask of what.
Maybe she knew.
Maybe she was afraid to know.
Her fingers finished the knot.
Then, for one second, her hand rested flat against the back of the apron.
Not his back.
The apron.
But he felt it through everything.
“I’m scared too,” she said.
Crew closed his eyes.
The room got too loud.
Then too quiet.
Her hand dropped.
She stepped away.
When he turned, her face was business again.
Mostly.
Talia looked between them and lifted one eyebrow.
Marin pointed at her. “No.”
“I breathed.”
“Judgmentally.”
Talia smiled.
At 7:29, the livestream viewer count sat at 312.
Mrs. Paxton was vibrating.
Eddie had surrendered the clipboard to Talia, who had placed it facedown under a stack of napkins “for public safety.”
Marin stood beside Crew behind the table, leaving a respectable gap.
A gap.
Honest.
Necessary.
Buzzing with the kind of tension that did not need touching to be obvious.
Crew looked at the laptop screen.
Viewer count: 428.
Then 517.
Then 689.
Marin inhaled.
He heard it.
He did not look at her.
“You can still change your mind,” he said.
She kept her eyes on the camera.
“So can you.”
“I’m in.”
“Then so am I.”
Viewer count: 804.
Talia stood behind the laptop.
“Going live in five.”
Marin lifted her chin.
Crew put both hands lightly on the table.
Not close to hers.
Three inches away.
Always three inches.
“Four,” Talia said.
Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands.
Eddie whispered, “For the roof.”
“Three.”
Crew looked at Marin.
She looked back.
For one second, the whole world narrowed to the space between them.
“Two.”
Marin’s mouth curved.
Sharp.
Scared.
Brave.
“Try to be less handsome,” she whispered.
Crew’s brain stopped.
“One.”
The livestream light turned red.
Marin faced the camera with a smile that could sell cupcakes to enemies.
“Hi, Honeybrook,” she said. “Welcome to One Night to Save the Roof. This is Captain Problem.”
Crew forgot every word he had prepared.
The comments exploded.
And Marin Webb, menace that she was, looked deeply pleased with herself.