Page 11 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

H e waved.

Well—technically, I waved first. But then he waved back. And smiled. It was a real one, too. Nothing smug or dazzling or I-know-you-want-me about it.

I close the cabin door behind me and let myself lean against it.

My mug is still warm in my hands as I take a long sip, hoping the caffeine will replace whatever part of me short-circuited out there.

Clément Rivière is tall, charming, and French—three strikes. I know it well from my softball days. Three strikes and Clément Rivière is out .

And yet, my stomach still does that embarrassing swoop when I think about the way his eyes crinkled when I handed him a glass of milk.

I set the mug down and pace to my small desk. The window lets in enough afternoon light to make everything on it look worse—my spreadsheet printouts, annotated maps, and the most recent zoning ordinances from the Maple Falls Township archives.

I stare at them like they’re going to suddenly rearrange themselves into a lifeline.

They don’t.

I drop into the chair and exhale through my nose. There is no accounting solution to this.

I bought us time. A stay of execution, thanks to a filing discrepancy and one loophole buried in Washington State’s arcane tax abatement code. But time is all it was. A stall tactic. A well-placed speed bump on a road being paved by someone with more money than decency.

The billionaire owns a critical parcel just outside the downtown overlay district. If he gets a variance—and he will, because money always finds its own zoning—he’ll have every right to steamroll this town with condos, parking garages, and whatever soulless empire he’s planning.

I shuffle through the pages again. Numbers, names, dates—all meaningless without power to enforce them. There’s no elegant formula to save Maple Falls. No strategic pivot. Not when the enemy has already bought the chessboard.

I hate this.

I hate knowing that I can’t logic our way out of it. That I’ll have to watch a town I’ve slowly come to love get stripped and rezoned into something unrecognizable.

I hate even more that I’m thinking about this while still replaying the look Clément gave me like that wave was filled with a lot more than a simple greeting.

My brain is supposed to be better than this.

He’s a hockey player. He’s temporary. He’s go-go-go.

I am not. I am spreadsheets and rules and systems. There is no cell in my planner labeled Feelings for the Frenchman. And if there was, I’d cross it out in permanent ink .

I sigh, tap the corner of the desk once, twice, and finally lean back.

He waved. That’s all it was. Just a wave.

Before I head to the emergency council meeting to ruin everyone’s day, I swing by the barn to check on the local hay bale casualty.

Scotty is sitting on an overturned bucket, wrapped in a fleece blanket with a coffee cup balanced precariously on his knee like a war hero on recovery leave. Edgar is chewing on the edge of his blanket, but Scotty doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care.

“You’re looking rough. Do you think this is pro hockey come back to bite you?” I ask, stepping around a pile of straw.

“Likely,” he sighs. “That’ll teach me to try to prove something to myself.”

“Right,” I say. “Because nothing says ‘peak masculinity’ like lifting compressed grass for an audience of one.”

“Two. Betsy was there too.”

He tips his head toward me with a grimace that might be a smile. “The core was strong. The discs were not.”

I hold out the pain killer and thermal pack I snagged from the first aid kit. He takes both with a grateful grunt.

“Clément filled in nicely,” he says before gulping down the painkillers with coffee. “The kids love him. Even Edgar was enamored. Must be that European glow.”

“I’m sorry, the what ?”

He gestures vaguely, nearly sloshing coffee on himself. “You know. Tall. Handsome. That whole bonjour, I’m emotionally available but mysterious with an accent thing. You throw that in an NHL team in a small town and it’s lethal.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you suggesting Clément is lethal? ”

Scotty gives me a grin that’s pure mischief. “Only to women with a pulse and penchant for croissants.”

“Oh, Scotty.” I walk off before I smile in front of him. That man is incorrigible when he gets on a dad joke rant.

Besides, I have an emergency council meeting to attend.

The walk to town hall takes all of twenty-four minutes, and I spend every one of them internally rehearsing my delivery like I’m prepping for a budget defense in a room full of investment sharks.

I head through the side entrance, where I’m greeted by the sound of an ancient copier whirring like it’s trying to summon spirits and the unmistakable scent of a coffee percolator in action.

Phillip Bane, a.k.a. Chief of Passive Aggression, looks up from his desk like I’ve personally insulted his mother by existing.

“Look who decided to come back,” he says.

“Hi, Phillip,” I say, already done with this conversation. “Still committed to that beard that doesn’t connect?”

The meeting room already has a few souls milling about. I’m here early, binder in hand, stomach tight. While I don’t technically have to be here, I had to be here . I’m the town accountant, but mostly I care deeply about what’s going to happen.

The council members trickle in slowly, murmuring greetings or complaints depending on how much coffee they’ve had.

I nod, professional, even though my hair still smells like hay and I’ve got a smear of mud on my sleeve.

Ashlyn’s already inside, talking to Troy Hart, the owner of the arena, and a man whose outfit screams hockey coach.

I scan the room. Some council members look concerned, others annoyed, and one or two are clearly hoping this will be over in time for the lottery numbers to be called.

I glance down at my notes—property details, legal precedents, a few ideas for fundraising—but my heart’s not in the numbers this time.

I don’t want to just balance this budget. I want to save the town.

Ashlyn stands and starts explaining the situation. Shocked silence is all around us as she explains what’s happening.

A billionaire who wants to take our town away from us.

This news is going to spread like wildfire, I think as I see several gossipy Maple Falls residents in attendance, but we need the whole town to help us find a way to stop it.

I’ve already heard most of what Ashlyn shares, but the details still land like a punch to the gut. Victor MacDonald’s heir has appeared out of the woodwork and wants the land back. It seems he has rights to part of the arena land and a stretch of Main Street too.

There’s a loud bang as one council member slams a fist on the table. Others erupt into overlapping questions. I do what I always do when things feel like they’re spinning—I start calculating. Options. Costs. Time.

Then Ashlyn gestures to three men standing nearby, including Troy Hart. But what she says doesn’t connect for me.

“We have representatives here from the Ice Breakers who are going to start us off by hosting a bachelor auction.”

Bachelor auction?

Across the table, Mrs. Fishman lets out a gasp so delighted that I expect her to start fanning herself with the town charter. “We’re going to sell men?”

My brain does not stall. It crashes. Full system failure.

“Auction?” I mouth, eyes wide.

“Of men,” someone confirms, far too cheerfully.

“Not just any men,” someone nearby says with a giggle. “The Ice Breakers men. ”

A cough escapes me—an ungodly sound that’s part gag, part what-have-we-come-to wheeze. I clutch my notepad like it might save me from whatever reality we’re now living in.

“You okay?” The woman beside me leans in.

No, I am not okay. Because unless there are other eligible bachelors hiding in the bakery basement, I know exactly who’s going to be center stage for this. Tall. French. Muscles for days. Motorcycle. Smiles like romance on a stick.

Clément.

Sweet heavens above, we’re going to put Clément Rivière on a platform and ask people to bid for him like he’s a vintage wine. And the worst part? He’ll probably love it. Flash that smirk. Speak in French and melt the front row.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can already hear it. Bonjour, ladies. Who wants a night with Maple Falls’ finest import?

Someone will have an attack of the vapors. Someone will faint.

And someone—not me, obviously—will place an outrageous bid and walk away with my… my…

Not my anything. We are not a thing. I don’t even want a thing.

And yet the thought of someone else winning that date sends a zip of possessiveness through me so strong I nearly drop my pen.

Now I have to sit through the rest of this meeting pretending I’m not planning how to sabotage a fictional woman who doesn’t even exist yet.