Page 2 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

O kay, yeah, I probably could’ve been more subtle in my entrance. But subtlety has never really been my thing.

I learned a long time ago that when you want to move up in life, make new connections, or get paperwork done at a government office, you have to be memorable. French administration is known worldwide for its complexity and slower-than-molasses approach.

But my situation is getting desperate. I need a building permit, and fast.

So when I didn’t see anyone at the front desk of the Town Hall, but heard voices down the hall… I knew I had to make an entrance.

Seems that’s what I’ve done.

Papers are flying through the air in slow motion as if we’re in a high-stakes scene in a courtroom drama. Only this courtroom smells like lemon cleaner and municipal carpeting.

The two people in the room look like consummate town hall employees. The first is a confirmed bureaucrat in a button-up shirt sporting a very unimpressed frown on his face.

The other is the woman I apparently just startled into launching a legal dossier across the room.

And she’s stunning.

Not in the overdone, look-at-me way of Parisian heiresses or runway models who smell like sarcasm and rose water.

No. This woman—she’s precision wrapped in a form-fitting skirt and caffeine.

Structured navy blazer, sleeves rolled just so, and dark hair pulled back like she has things to do and you’re in the way.

French women lean in when they want to be noticed. They pout, they toss their hair, they know exactly what they are doing at every step.

But this woman?

She leans away . Away from distraction and away from attention. One look from her piercing dark eyes as if she’s royal and I can tell she’s leaning away from me.

I’m fascinated.

She’s still staring at me like I’m a boulder that just crashed through a stained glass window. Fair enough, I didn’t mean to startle her. But I also didn’t expect her —this walking thundercloud of composure with eyes that are somehow calm and furious at the same time.

A page skims across the toe of my sneaker.

She drops down at the same time, and we nearly collide.

Her perfume is clean laundry and ink. She narrows her eyes. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I get that a lot,” I say with a shrug, like I haven’t decided to rearrange my entire week around her schedule. She doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. Which would be disheartening if it didn’t also make her approximately ten times more intriguing .

She scoops up a document like it’s the last will and testament of the town itself.

I glance toward the desk, where the confirmed bureaucrat is watching this unfold with faint amusement.

“I can’t help you with a building permit.

That’s firmly in mayor territory. Maybe try asking the Ice Queen.

” He gestures to the woman and marches out with a huff. I can’t hide that I’m glad he’s gone.

I smile at the woman on the floor. “Hi. Maybe you can help me?”

“Only if you need help with taxes.” She drops her business card in front of me and finishes collecting the scattered documents. She’s efficient in a way that makes me wonder if she has memorized every one of them. Then she rises in one graceful movement and turns to face me.

She’s taller than I thought, and the hunch of her shoulders says she’s already mentally removed me from the building. Possibly with a catapult.

Most women I come across are eager to meet me. Occasionally after games, I can see them lining up. It comes with the territory, and in my younger days, I loved the attention. But I know enough now about the world to know that love doesn’t wait in line.

The fact that this woman seems to want to be anywhere except talking to me has lit a fire that will not extinguish until I have won her over.

I’m now obsessed.

“I’m Clément Rivière,” I add, offering my hand before realizing she’s already too busy judging my soul to notice. “I’m here about the permit. I’d sent my request in for Mayor Thompkins to review. Is he around?”

“I wouldn’t know. ”

“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “Shall we go on a treasure hunt together?”

Still nothing.

Okay, not a talker. That’s fine. Some of my best interviews have been with people who hate me.

“I had an agreement with him when I signed to buy this house,” I go on. “He said I could do minor work on the property while the official permits processed. I just need the green light on plumbing, so I don’t get electrocuted trying to shower.”

“I’m the accountant,” she replies without looking at me. “Which means I’m aware of your permit request, but I cannot help you.” She spreads the paperwork out on the table and begins rearranging it with a long sigh.

I think I’m in love.

“So,” I say, standing tall and trying not to fiddle with the strap of my duffel, “I bought this property, you’ve probably seen it. Proper fixer-upper. Roof might be technically airborne in high wind, but I like a challenge.”

“Charming,” she says flatly.

“Anyway,” I continue, “I need to know the status, as I have about two weeks before I have to move in. My current rental accommodation will then be occupied by someone else, and I’ve never been one for sleeping under the stars in the winter.

” Nothing from her. “I promise it’s just to do the normal stuff. I won’t even replace the bidet.”

She keeps her eyes on the papers.

“She is... très old-fashioned,” I add. “The house. Not the bidet. Maybe you don’t know what a bidet is, it’s very French after all, though even in Paris?—”

“I know what a bidet is,” she cuts in.

“I should have guessed.” I flash her my best smile. The one that got me out of at least three speeding tickets and one awkward Christmas dinner in Paris. “I really want to make a home of Maple Falls, and for that, I need this permit.”

There’s a pause. Not the flirty kind. The kind where you can feel the imaginary red stamp on your metaphorical file. REJECTED. DO NOT PROCESS.

“You don’t believe me,” I say, amused.

“I believe,” she says coolly, “that you’re the type who shows up with a smile and a plan, with no intention of following through on either.”

Oof.

I let out a low whistle. “ Et voilà . Brutal honesty. You must be a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties,” she says.

Of course she doesn’t.

I could walk away. Should, probably. But her voice—it’s tight and tired. Like I remind her of someone.

And I hate that.

“I know the kind of guy you are,” she says softly, confirming my fear. “You’ll charm a few locals, flirt your way past rules, then leave when the novelty wears off and the first real snow hits.”

Just like that, she cracks my armor. I’m speechless. She’s so wrong, it actually hurts.

That’s not me.

It used to be, maybe. Before the league, before the expectations, before the panic I don’t let anyone see when I think too hard about what happens after hockey. I didn’t come here to flake out. I came here because I needed something real .

I don’t get a chance to say any of that, because she straightens her blazer, scoops up her folder of Very Serious Papers, and turns on her heel .

I call after her. “I’m not that guy, you know!”

She doesn’t turn around. Just raises a hand and says, “You all think that—until you are.”

Then she’s gone.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t have a comeback.