Page 20 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

“ O kay,” Lucian grunts, wedging his shoulder against the bathroom wall. “On three, we lift. Gently. You keep saying this tub is ‘original,’ and I don’t want to end up with turn-of-the-century porcelain in my femur.”

“It’s vintage,” I correct, adjusting my grip under the clawfoot. “There’s a difference.”

“One, two, three!”

We lift. It moves.

Then something groans—no, shrieks —from beneath us, and there’s a horrible cracking sound.

“Put it down, put it down!” I shout.

We lower it faster than planned. One foot of the tub crunches into a cracked tile, and a jet of water—a literal jet—suddenly sprays from a pipe near the floor like champagne bursting from a shaken bottle.

Lucian jumps back, hands raised like the tub just bit him. “Didn’t you turn off the water?”

I scramble for the shut-off valve I think is behind the old laundry chute. “I thought so! How many valves can a place have?”

We rush down to the basement, ducking to avoid the overhead beams, since this is mostly a glorified crawl space.

“Got it,” Lucian calls. The spray hisses, then dies with a cough as he twists the rusted valve. Silence falls. Damp silence that stinks like failure.

“Thanks—” I start, but something catches my eye

What is that?

I approach one of the floor beams overhead where something has been pinned to the wood. The closer I get, the more I start making out the details. It’s an old photograph. I’m careful as I remove the pin and take it down, lest it turn to dust in my hands.

It’s the house. My house. But in the photograph, it looks fresh and strong, which it needs to be for the twenty-or-so people standing on its front stoop.

Children in old-fashioned outfits, adults with severe faces, there’s no doubt this is an original picture.

But what strikes me are the two people standing at the top center, towering over the others.

While the others in the picture have faces frozen as we see in most old photos, serious and near-frowning, this couple has a soft expression.

His eyes are crinkled, her mouth is curved at the corner, and their shoulders are affectionately pressed against each other in a way that must have been quite surprising at the time.

“Look at that,” Lucian says, looking over my shoulder. “I bet they’re the original family who lived here.”

Something about the picture, about that couple, has gripped me. They lived the life I’m trying to create now, in this same house. Family. Community.

A loud pop pulls me out of the dream, and water starts spraying sideways from the valve. I protect the photo behind my back.

“I’m on it!” Lucian whips a wrench from his back pocket and tightens it back into submission. He sighs and leans against the wall, dripping. “You may have bitten off more than you can chew here, buddy.”

I run a hand down my face. It comes away wet, dirty, and vaguely metallic.

“I just need the bathroom functional,” I say as we start heading back upstairs.

“That’s it. One room. And it has to be quick.

I can’t bring in any professionals until the permit comes through. I just need it minimally livable.”

Lucian snorts. “Right. Nothing says ‘livable’ like structural plumbing failure. When you come up for auction, you’d better focus on your accent and not your DIY skills.”

I groan. “I’ve got to get out of doing this auction. Jamie told me I’m doing it like it’s a done deal, but?—”

“Hey, look. I get it.” Lucian passes me a rag, which I promptly use after securing the photo on a two-by-four out of harm’s way. Some disgusting liquid comes off my face. “But we’re all doing it for the sake of the town. Think of it as one of the hazards of the job. It’s just for fun.”

I know the guys have all been more involved in town-saving activities than I have, and it’s my turn. It’s just the idea that makes my stomach turn. Before I can say anything more, a voice floats up from the floor below.

“Clément?”

I know that voice.

Lucian’s eyes go cartoon-wide. He tips his head toward the hallway. “Isn’t that the accountant you’re trying to conquer?”

I glare at him. “I’m not trying to conquer her. This isn’t a medieval love poem.”

He shrugs, grinning. “Hey, you’re the one who said ‘win her over.’ That’s battle language. I’m just following the metaphor.”

What if that’s what they all think? That I’m just trying to seduce Marcy for sport. What if she thinks that? What if I’ve become exactly the guy I swore I never would be—charming on the surface, but shallow underneath?

I wipe my hands on the rag and take a breath.

Time to show her who I really am.

“Clément?” she calls again.

I step out of the bathroom, still damp, one hand clutching a rag that’s probably more rust than cloth. Lucian trails behind me, muttering about tetanus.

Marcy stands just inside the front door, hands clasped in front of her like she’s about to deliver a keynote address. She’s wearing a navy pencil skirt and a blouse buttoned all the way up.

“I tried knocking,” she says, looking around, “and your doorbell doesn’t work. Hasn’t since the Kennedy administration, I assume.”

Lucian snorts.

“Ah,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Yes, well. It adds to the ambiance.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Your ambiance smells like wet plaster.”

Lucian, unhelpfully, gestures toward the bathroom. “And that was before he caused a flood.”

Marcy blinks. “It’s somehow worse than it was the last time I came.”

I open my mouth to protest, then catch Lucian’s expression behind her and think better of it. “Renovation is an evolving process.”

She steps further into the house, gaze darting like she’s cataloging structural crimes. “Right. ”

There’s a pause. She clears her throat. Twice. Then straightens her already arrow-straight posture and lifts her chin an inch.

“I may have been a bit… hasty,” she says, carefully, “the other day. When you came to Happy Horizons.”

I don’t say anything. Mostly because I’m too stunned she’s saying anything about that.

“And since Maple Fest is starting today,” she continues, looking over my shoulder as if she’s hoping someone else might take over mid-sentence, “I thought, as someone who is more local than you are, I could maybe, you know, share some of the delights of this annual event.”

Lucian coughs loudly. I pretend not to hear him.

Marcy frowns at the floor and does a sort of awkward shuffle, arms crossing, then uncrossing, then clasping her hands in front of her. I can’t help watching her.

She’s beautiful, obviously. But it’s more than that. It’s the way she’s trying. The way this offer costs her a little pride and vulnerability. I can see, clear as anything, that this is not a woman who does things halfway.

And I—stupid, romantic idiot that I am—feel my chest tighten.

But also… Maybe it was easier when I thought of her as a challenge. Something to win. Someone to chase.

Because real things break. I could give her an easy way out and gently refuse her offer…

Like I would ever do that in a million years.

“I’d love that.”

Maple Fest is charming, caramel-scented, hay-bale-lined madness.

There are booths everywhere. Homemade soaps, local honey, hand-whittled duck whistles—which Marcy insists are useful—and more maple-flavored things than I knew existed. Maple popcorn, maple lollipops, maple jerky. I was handed a maple-scented candle by a child in a squirrel costume. No explanation.

And in the middle of it all is Marcy Fontaine, dragging me by the wrist.

“Keep up, Rivière,” she says, weaving through the crowd with purpose. “The scavenger hunt waits for no man.”

I don’t say it out loud, but she could lead me off a cliff at this point and I’d follow. The relaxed long skirt she’s wearing is doing impressive things in the autumn breeze. But more than that, it’s the look on her face.

She’s glowing.

It’s the kind of smile that happens when someone forgets they’re being observed.

I want to tell her about the silly bachelor auction business, just to put it behind us, but I don’t want to break the moment.

Her eyes are lit up, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her hair’s come loose in a way that makes me want to reach out and tuck it back.

“You love this,” I murmur.

She glances over her shoulder. “What gave it away? The fact that I know everyone’s names, or the way I just high-fived the maple candy judge?”

I grin. “Both.”

We stop at a booth where a woman in flannel offers us tiny cups of maple cider. Marcy sips. “This is new. They infused it with smoked vanilla this year.”

I try it. It tastes like a holiday hug. “This is dangerously good. ”

She nods. “I used to think this place was the end of the road,” she says quietly as we wait for a turn at the ring toss. “Like I washed up here. But now… I don’t know. When I look back now, it feels more like a beginning.”

I don’t say anything right away. I just watch her toss a ring, get it on the first try, and shimmy her shoulders like she just won something more than a duck whistle.

“The kids at Happy Horizons will love it,” she says as she tucks it into her bag.

Marcy fits here.

She knows every booth owner and which kettle corn stand is superior. She’s not calculating things in her head or fencing with me using sarcasm. She’s not the ice queen. She’s just here .

And I can’t stop looking at her.

“You’re staring,” she says, not looking at me as we continue strolling between stalls.

“I am,” I reply, shameless.

“Careful. I might start thinking you’re not completely full of it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Nearby, the square dance band strikes up. A crowd’s already forming around the gazebo where locals start to pair off with practiced steps.

I spot Lucian in the mix, dancing with the cupcake lady. They spin around with contagious enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know they had something going on,” I murmur.

Weston appears beside me like a ghost. “Either that or she bribed him with baked goods.”

Marcy laughs, nudges me with her elbow, and I swear I feel it three vertebrae deep.