Chapter Seventeen #2
Mrs. Paxton burst in holding a folder, wearing her visor, and breathing like she had power-walked from civic responsibility.
I pointed at her immediately.
“No.”
She stopped.
“I have good news.”
“Your good news historically has teeth.”
“This one doesn’t.”
Talia appeared from the kitchen doorway.
“Is that a folder?”
Mrs. Paxton looked down.
“It is not a clipboard.”
“Barely,” I said.
Crew leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee, wisely silent.
Mrs. Paxton opened the folder.
“The roof company says the temporary sealing is complete ahead of schedule. Full repair begins Monday, but the center is safe and dry for today’s events and tomorrow’s cleanup.”
Relief moved through me.
Real relief.
“Good.”
“And,” Mrs. Paxton continued carefully, “the committee wants to publicly close the fundraiser page with a thank-you post today.”
I braced.
Crew straightened slightly.
Mrs. Paxton lifted a hand.
“No couple language. No hearts. No private photos. No hashtags beyond the veterans center fund.”
Talia looked impressed.
“Shirley.”
Mrs. Paxton smiled. “Privacy-forward.”
I closed my eyes.
“Please stop saying that.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try different.”
“Boundaries-forward?”
“No.”
“Consent-centered?”
Crew coughed into his coffee.
Talia whispered, “Actually…”
“No,” I said.
Mrs. Paxton handed me the draft.
A printed draft.
On paper.
Acceptable.
I read it.
THANK YOU, HONEYbrOOK
Because of your generosity, the Honeybrook Veterans Center roof repair deposit was fully funded before the Fourth of July parade.
Thank you to Sergeant Tom Donnelly for a lifetime of service, Webb & Whisk for hosting and emergency baking, the Spitfires for matching donations and showing up, and every donor who helped protect a place that protects others.
The fundraiser page will remain open through Sunday for anyone who wants to contribute to ongoing maintenance.
For the roof. Obviously.
No hearts.
No Crew and Marin.
No couple.
I looked up.
Mrs. Paxton’s eyes were anxious.
“It’s good,” I said.
Her whole face softened.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Talia took it, read it, and nodded. “Approved by the Ministry of Not Being Weird.”
Crew read it last.
He looked at Mrs. Paxton.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Paxton’s eyes filled.
“Oh, don’t you start,” I said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m proud of all of us,” she said, voice wobbling.
“Oh no,” Talia whispered.
Mrs. Paxton looked at me. “I got carried away this week.”
“Yes.”
“I hurt you.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
The bakery went quiet.
Not awkward.
Important.
Mrs. Paxton twisted her folder in both hands.
“I told myself it was for the center. But good causes can still have bad manners.”
Talia’s eyebrows rose.
Crew looked down.
I stared at Shirley Paxton, committee tyrant, roof warrior, tiny-heart offender, standing in my bakery offering an apology with no decoration.
My anger loosened another notch.
This week was becoming very inconvenient.
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded.
“And if I ever do it again, you may use the frosting knife.”
“Generous.”
“Handle first.”
“Less generous.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then she glanced at Crew.
“And you. I’m sorry too.”
Crew lifted his head.
“For dragging you and Marin into a story you didn’t choose.”
Crew did not look at me.
He kept the apology where it belonged.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Paxton wiped under one eye.
“Now, I’m leaving before I cry on your clean floor.”
“Appreciated,” I said.
She left.
The bell jingled behind her.
Talia stood frozen for two seconds.
Then whispered, “Did Shirley Paxton just experience character development?”
“Yes,” I said.
Crew nodded. “Strong arc.”
Talia pointed at him. “Do not use writing terms in my bakery unless you brought bagels.”
“I did bring bagels.”
“Carry on.”
She vanished again, probably to text Sutton an update titled Committee Woman Becomes Self-Aware.
Crew and I stood in the bakery with the approved thank-you draft between us.
Something about Mrs. Paxton apologizing made the whole week feel real in a new way.
Not just chaos.
Impact.
Damage.
Repair.
I leaned back against the counter.
“I think I’m tired.”
Crew’s eyes softened.
“You should be.”
“No concerned voice.”
“That was agreement.”
“Soft agreement.”
“I’ll work on texture.”
I laughed.
Then covered my face with one hand.
“I need to stop laughing at you.”
“I disagree.”
“Of course you do.”
His phone buzzed.
Then mine.
Mrs. Paxton had posted the thank-you.
We both checked at the same time.
The comments filled quickly.
For Tom.
For the center.
Thank you, Marin.
Thank you, Spitfires.
For the roof.
Obviously.
Then Frankie commented:
Spitfires Hockey: No graphics. Just gratitude. And one approved pun: this town raised the roof by saving it.
I stared.
Crew stared.
Talia yelled from the back, “Sutton approved that!”
I laughed.
Crew looked at me.
I let him.
For once.
The bakery opened at ten.
The morning became busy fast, but good-busy.
People came in to buy pastries, ask about the ceiling, talk about the parade, and congratulate us on the roof.
Some glanced at Crew, who had somehow become a voluntary shelf adjuster, box carrier, and unofficial coffee restocker.
A few opened their mouths like they wanted to say something about fireworks.
Then they saw my face.
They reconsidered.
Growth everywhere.
Terrifying.
Crew stayed until noon, helping quietly. At one point, Mason came in wearing his Captain Problem apron and handed Crew a handwritten certificate that said:
PASSED INTERNET SAFETY LESSON. NEEDS PRACTICE.
Crew accepted it solemnly.
“I’ll keep working.”
Mason nodded. “Ask before posting.”
“Always.”
Mason looked at me.
“Are you his girlfriend now?”
His mother made a noise of pure horror.
The entire bakery froze.
Crew went still.
I crouched slightly so I was eye level with Mason.
“Mason.”
“Yes?”
“That is a private question.”
He frowned, absorbing this.
“Even if the internet wants to know?”
“Especially then.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
I handed him a cookie.
“For growth.”
His mother looked like she might cry from gratitude.
Crew watched the exchange with an expression I could not safely identify in public.
After Mason left, Crew leaned near the counter.
“That was good.”
“Do not praise my child diplomacy.”
“It was excellent.”
“I will put you on napkin duty.”
“I accept.”
Of course he did.
By twelve fifteen, the rush slowed.
Talia took over the front and gave me a look that meant go have the conversation before I trap you in the walk-in with him.
I glared.
She smiled.
Crew stood near the repaired back corner, reading Mason’s certificate.
I walked over.
He looked up.
“Everything okay?”
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
“Do you have a few minutes?”
His expression shifted.
“Always.”
The word landed.
Too much.
He seemed to realize it.
“I mean, yes.”
“Come upstairs.”
His eyes widened just slightly.
I pointed at him.
“For a conversation, Captain Problem.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You had a face.”
“I have—”
“Do not.”
He followed me through the back hall and up the narrow stairs to my apartment.
Halfway up, my pulse started being ridiculous.
This was my private space.
He had been here before.
Years ago.
Not often.
But enough.
Enough to remember the creaky step.
Enough to remember the low ceiling near the landing.
Enough to remember that my kitchen window stuck in July.
When we reached the top, he paused outside the door.
I looked back.
“What?”
“Are you sure?”
The question hit.
Not about danger.
About permission.
About space.
About not assuming old access still applied.
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
I unlocked the door and let him in.
The apartment looked exactly like it had that morning, which was to say lived-in, tiny, and lightly attacked by paperwork. A mug sat in the sink. A throw blanket was half-folded on the couch. Bakery invoices stacked on the table. One pair of shoes near the door that I kicked aside too late.
Crew stepped inside and stayed near the entry, like moving farther required a map and written approval.
I closed the door.
“Sit down before you make the doorway emotional.”
His mouth curved.
He sat on the edge of the couch.
Carefully.
Like the couch had boundaries too.
I stood for three seconds.
Then realized standing made this look like an interview, so I sat in the armchair across from him.
The one with the wobbly leg.
Bad choice.
The chair rocked slightly.
Crew’s hand lifted, then stopped.
I saw.
“I’m fine.”
“I said nothing.”
“With your rescue fingers.”
He put his hand down.
“Sorry.”
Silence.
Hard silence.
Not bad.
Just full.
I looked around my apartment because looking at him felt too direct.
“I brought you up here because I don’t want Honeybrook present for every emotional development in my life.”
“Good.”
“And because last night happened.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Yes.”
“And because Monday is coming.”
“Yes.”
“And because I need to say things before I decide I can avoid them through cookies.”
Crew leaned forward slightly.
Not too much.
“I’m listening.”
Of course he was.
I took a breath.
“I don’t forgive everything.”
“I know.”
“I’m not ready to jump back into us.”
“I know.”
“This is not jumping.”
“No.”
“And I don’t want old us.”
His face tightened for a split second.
Then he nodded.
“Neither do I.”
That surprised me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“You answered fast.”
“Because it’s true.”
“How?”
He looked around the apartment once.
Not nosy.
Careful.
“Old us loved each other, but we were young. I let pressure turn me silent. You tried to be strong enough for both of us because you thought love meant endurance.”
The words landed with uncomfortable accuracy.
He looked back at me.
“I don’t want that again.”
My throat tightened.
“What do you want?”
His eyes held mine.
“I want to know you now. I want you to know me now. I want to build trust without pretending chemistry is the same thing as repair.”
Oh.
Terrible.
Excellent.
I looked down at my hands.
“You practiced that.”
“No.”
“Unfortunately, I believe you.”
His mouth twitched.
I looked back up.
“I want to know you now too.”
The words were scary.
Small.
Huge.
Crew went very still.
I pointed at him.
“Do not look like I just handed you a Stanley Cup.”