Page 15 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

“ Y ou know,” Angel says, looping her arm through mine as we walk toward the arena’s main doors, “this is the very place we had our first kiss.”

“Here we go,” I mutter under my breath, but with a big smile none-the-less.

“You were magnificent,” Scotty pipes up. “I’ll never in my life forget the way you grabbed my face and gave me what for.”

I cough on air. “Excuse me? She was telling you off during your first kiss?” These two have become hopeless romantics over the time they’ve been together. Watching their love blossom is “relationship goals” for me… for later, that is.

“I needed the pep talk.” Scotty smiles and looks off in the distance.

“I didn’t know what was good for me then.

Fortunately, I smartened up pretty quick.

” He shrugs. “Takes a real man to admit when he’s outmatched by a woman half his size and twice as smart.

” He loops his arm through Angel’s other arm and the three of us walk into the arena like Dorothy, the Tin Man, and the Lion on the yellow brick road.

“Look what they’ve done with the place!”

“I’ve lived here for years,” I say, “and only ever once been inside. And it sure didn’t look like this.”

Angel leans closer. “You’re gonna love it.”

I nod and try not to trip over the suddenly too-shiny floor. My heels are black, sensible, and currently mutinying against the balls of my feet.

My dress is black too. Long sleeves. Subtle shimmer. Simple enough not to draw attention, but tailored enough to suggest I know what I’m doing—which I don’t. I picked the silver pendant my mom gave me after graduation. It sits just at the hollow of my throat like a reminder to stay grounded.

“You look great,” Angel says. “Like someone who could file taxes and kill a man in the same night.”

“That’s precisely what I was going for.”

Scotty hands me a champagne flute with unnecessary ceremony. I take it with a sigh and stare into the bubbles.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” I mutter.

“Let’s see,” Angel says. “Either because the mayor’s daughter told you to come or because Clément asked you nicely.”

It’s Clément. Though Ashlyn’s argument was a good one, too. “Ashlyn said we need as many folks out as possible, making Maple Falls look like it’s worth saving. I think she quoted a dystopian novel. But why me specifically…”

“You’re trusted around here,” Scotty says. “You’ve done more for this town than most of the people at this party. You’ve done the books for Happy Horizons, Town Hall, a good part of Main Street, and a variety of start-ups. You made Neesha’s place solvent with nothing but a spreadsheet and spite.”

I clear my throat. “And receipts. Don’t forget the receipts. ”

Angel smiles. “Look at you now. You came here with nothing. Found your way from upstate New York. No job lined up. And when that worthless ex of yours proved he wasn’t worth the trouble, you made a life of your own.”

I cringe. “We don’t need to?—”

“I’m just saying,” she goes on, “not many people can move across the country, arrive in a town that smells like hay and hot dog water, and turn it into home the way you have.”

Scotty lifts his glass. “To scary new beginnings and people who can balance a budget in their sleep.”

I lift mine too, begrudgingly. “To goat tax deductions and ethical fundraising loopholes.”

Angel clinks hers against mine, laughing. “That’s the Marcy we love.”

I’m about to take a sip when something catches my eye.

Over there, the far wall. A table, glowing under spotlights like the treasure in a heist movie.

Cupcakes.

Massive, well-frosted, logo-stamped cupcakes.

I lower my glass. “I didn’t know Neesha was doing cupcakes for tonight!”

Angel follows my gaze. “Ice Breakers cupcakes. That’s brilliant!”

“They have glitter. Edible glitter.” I hand my champagne to Scotty. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Where are you?—”

“I have a date,” I say, already moving. “With baked goods.”

The cupcakes are even more majestic up close. Neesha has outdone herself. Each one is topped with a perfectly piped swirl of frosting, a dusting of edible glitter, and a tiny fondant puck with the Ice Breakers logo .

Honestly, it’s almost too beautiful to eat. Who am I kidding? It’s worthy to be eaten.

I sidestep a group of overly perfumed donors and zero in. There’s a man standing at the table, tall, in a dark suit, talking animatedly to two other guys, and just close enough to block my access to the vanilla ones. The good ones.

I do what any cupcake-motivated woman in a formal dress would do. I slide under his arm.

Literally.

“Pardon me,” I say automatically, bending under the arm and snatching the cupcake.

He freezes. And then?—

“Marcy?”

I pause. That voice. That accent.

I look up to see Clément. With a mouthful of frosting and icing smeared across his upper lip.

And I’m still touching him.

My shoulder is pressed against his chest, right below where his arm had been slung casually around the cupcake display. His suit is warm. His body is warm . And for a horrifying second, I forget what I came here for.

I look up—way up, because apparently that suit came with extra height—and I’m met with his eyes going wide as the sugar rush hits.

He looks incredible. His hair’s a little tousled and his tux fits like it was tailored by angels. And the bowtie, slightly askew, makes him look unfairly roguish.

My brain sends one very unhelpful message to the rest of my body: Do not look at his mouth.

Which, of course, I do, because it’s covered in icing and curved into a startled smile.

“Oh,” I say, suppressing the kind of laugh that might shatter my ribcage. “Hi. ”

He starts to answer, forgets about the frosting, tries to inhale, and immediately starts choking.

“Are you okay?” I ask as he stumbles back.

He points dramatically at the water pitcher a table away, eyes slightly panicked, then bolts, still cupping his cupcake like it’s a baby chick and not the thing that tried to murder him.

The two guys he was talking to blink after him, clearly unfazed by this kind of behavior.

One of them smiles and steps forward, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Weston.”

The other one, sleeves already rolled up like the party’s over before it began, nods. “Lucian.”

I shake both their hands, trying not to let my palm still remember Clément’s heat. “Marcy.”

Weston gives me a knowing look. “So you’re the Marcy.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a title now?”

Lucian crosses his arms. “Only thing he’s talked about for a while now. Something about you nearly passing out in front of his place?”

“Let’s be fair,” Weston adds, “Marcy isn’t the only thing he talked about. There’s also the doorway disaster.”

“Doorway disaster?”

Lucian grins. “You know, measuring crown molding and getting distracted. Hammer met thumb. Thumb lost.”

“That tracks.”

“You a friend from around here?” Weston asks.

I nod. “Sort of. I was invited to tonight’s event by the mayor’s office.” Why do I feel the need to justify why I’m here and that it has nothing to do with Clément?

Their eyebrows lift. “Politics?” Lucian asks.

“Not yet,” I say, too fast. “I’m the accountant.”

A brief pause. Then their eyes go slightly wide in tandem .

Clément reappears, face slightly flushed, but otherwise recovered—water glass in one hand, cupcake still miraculously intact in the other.

He lifts the cupcake slightly like a toast. “ Bonjour again.”

I eye the frosting on his sleeve. “You okay? Or should I notify emergency services?”

He places a hand over his chest and lowers his head in mock solemnity. “Survived. But death by buttercream would have been a noble way to go.”

Weston sniggers. “Better than how he almost died in his attic last week.”

Clément groans. “We’re not telling attic stories tonight.”

“Who’s we ?” Lucian says. “I’m definitely telling the attic story later.”

Clément turns to me, eyes crinkling with a smile that’s still a little breathless. “Ignore them. They think they’re charming.”

I bite my lip, trying not to smile back. “You think you have the exclusive rights to charming?”

His grin widens. “Not think. Know. Now let’s go somewhere there’s a little more air,” Clément says smoothly, gesturing toward the edge of the room.

Before I can answer, Weston whistles low. “Ooooh. Air. That’s what the kids are calling it these days,” and Lucian chuckles at the innuendo.

Clément ignores them and steps beside me, gently placing his free hand on the small of my back.

And I?—

I forget how to walk.

That one simple touch—that confident, careful, not even inappropriate touch—is now the central nervous system of my entire evening.

The ballroom buzzes around us. Champagne flutes clink. Laughter breaks out near the bar. A jazz quartet plays a slow song near the stage, their instruments shimmering under warm lighting.

Someone’s perfume is too strong—vanilla and orange blossom—and a waiter nearly collides with us carrying a tray of crab cakes.

But all I can feel is his hand. It’s not even doing anything. Just resting there in the spot at the base of my spine. My breathing is shallow and I’m suddenly grateful for the crowd so I don’t have to speak.

We weave through the crowd slowly, his arm guiding me with ease.

People nod as we pass. A couple of women do double takes. One of them is Mrs. Fishman, wearing the same smirk she used when she shot down my sidewalk budget proposal last fall.

We reach a quieter alcove near the far wall, just past the bar, where the lights are softer and the crowd thins to small groups sipping wine and murmuring about local politics, or team strategy, or whatever people talk about while pretending not to eavesdrop.

Clément releases my back as we stop, and I don’t realize how much tension I was holding until it’s gone.

Like a string just loosened.

“You good?” he asks, offering a lopsided smile as he takes a bite of cupcake and somehow makes it look like flirting.

I take a long breath, trying to ground myself in things that are not him. Like marble floors. And ambient jazz. And the lingering aftershock of his palm between my shoulder blades.

“Fine,” I say. “Completely fine.”

Liar.

He grins again, as if he knows.

Clément gestures with a tilt of his head, cupcake now half- gone. “Come on. There’s a little garden outside the doors over here. The lights are nice. And it’s quieter.”

I follow, because apparently that’s what I do now, trail after French hockey players through crowded rooms while my common sense takes a nap.

He leads me toward the far end where tall doors open onto a covered terrace. The garden just beyond is lit by a canopy of tiny twinkling lights strung between slender trees like constellations that got tired of the sky and came down for a party.

The hum of the event fades as we step outside, the soft music and laughter muffled now.

Clément lets out a soft sigh, looking around like he’s just arrived at his destination. “ Enfin, ” he says under his breath. “Peace.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “That’s rich coming from someone who plays a violent sport in a freezing stadium in front of thousands of screaming fans.”

He glances at me sideways, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly. That’s why I appreciate this.”

“What, the decorative landscaping?”

“No. The not being watched.”

I study him more carefully. He’s not joking now. “You don’t like the crowds?”

He shrugs. “I love the game. Everything else is just part of the package. Noise. Attention. Expectations. I live with it. But I wouldn’t say I enjoy it.”

I didn’t expect that.

He brushes a crumb from his jacket sleeve, suddenly very focused on it. “When you’re the goalie, everyone notices when you fail. And only sometimes when you don’t.”

I don't say anything at first. His voice is different now. The flirtation's still there in the shape of his mouth, but not in his words.

“And yet,” I say, “you keep going back.”

“I do,” he says. “Because when it’s just me and the puck, and everything slows down—it’s like silence in motion. I love that. ”

I understand that kind of love. Quiet. Specific. Impossible to explain unless you’ve felt it.

His eyes meet mine, less sparkling now. More unguarded.

There’s more to the French goalie than what he shows. And this could be a real big problem. I look away before he sees what’s actually happening in me.

Feelings.