Page 26 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I’m in the backseat of Scotty and Angel’s truck, sandwiched between a flannel blanket and a suspiciously sparkly tote bag that Angel insists is “part of the vibe.” The truck smells like hay and cookies. It’s the most deceptively wholesome ride to an emotional ambush I’ve ever taken.

“Come on,” Angel says, twisting in the passenger seat to look back at me. “It’s going to be a blast . You’ll see.”

“It’s all in good fun,” Scotty chimes in from the driver’s seat. “A few harmless bids, some applause, one or two questionable dance moves. You’ll be out of there with a cupcake and your dignity intact.”

“I don’t remember signing a waiver for either of those outcomes,” I mutter, but I don’t demand that Scotty turn around either.

Even if I don’t want to go, that didn’t stop me from curling my hair, or putting on lipstick that cost more than my last electric bill. Or slipping into a dress that, while still squarely in the realm of “professional small-town accountant,” happens to fit like I remembered I was a woman tonight.

This isn’t a big deal . That’s what I keep telling myself.

I want to walk in, watch the show, clap politely, and prove—to myself, to Angel, to Clément—that this is just a silly bit of fun. That I’m mature. Unbothered. Zen.

And maybe if the bidding starts and things don’t get too ridiculous, and I have a number in mind that wouldn’t cause my bank account to implode… I could raise my paddle.

Just once.

It might be nice to see his face when he realizes I came. Like at the first game.

Who am I? What have I become? There’s no chance I can bid.

By the time we arrive at the auction, Hawk River Lodge has been transformed into something between a small-town gala and a reality dating show.

The string lights overhead cast a warm golden glow, and the rows of chairs have been replaced with round tables, each one decked out in maple-leaf centerpieces and “Save Maple Falls” flyers.

A banner strung across the far wall reads: “One Date to Save a Town!” in glittery gold letters.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.

“It’s festive,” Angel corrects, her arm looped through mine like she’s escorting me to prom.

Scotty holds open the door with a grin. “Festive and ridiculous. That’s the sweet spot, Fontaine.”

The room is filling fast. Local families, couples, clusters of women dressed like they just hopped off a party bus from Seattle. I glance around, immediately scanning for Clément—before I catch myself and turn my eyes back to Angel’s sequined cardigan. It’s a good cardigan. Distracting.

Angel and Scotty guide me toward a table off to the side near the cupcake display, which Neesha is manning with the laser focus of someone who’s deeply suppressing the urge to throw baked goods around.

Her dress is stunning. I see the way her jaw tightens every time one of the front-row out-of-town glamazons lets out a high-pitched giggle.

“What kind of event is this? I thought this was for charity,” I ask.

“It is,” Angel says. “And maybe just a little bit for drama. But good drama. The kind where no one dies and everyone ends up with cupcakes.”

Ashlyn takes the stage, microphone squealing slightly before adjusting. “Ladies, ladies, ladies! Welcome to the first-ever Ice Breakers Bachelor Auction! Where fantasy meets fundraising! I’m going to come around to distribute the paddles.”

I wince. “Was ‘cringe’ part of the mission statement?”

Scotty chuckles. “It’s all in good fun. Don’t think too hard.”

But I am thinking too hard.

I’m thinking about the woman in front of me in the rhinestone-studded mini-dress who already whispered “dibs” on someone’s name I didn’t catch.

I’m thinking about how Clément is going to be on that stage, right there.

I’m thinking about how this might be nothing more than a hockey-themed popularity contest.

But mostly, I’m thinking about how I curled my hair for this.

“Paddles!” Ashlyn calls out as she weaves between tables with a stack of numbered fans tucked under one arm and a clipboard in the other. “Folks, we’re taking names and donations for the cause!”

She stops at our table and Angel immediately lifts both hands in refusal. “Nope, I’m taken. I’m just here for a donation, snacks, and the post-auction gossip. ”

Ashlyn laughs. “Respect.”

Scotty, on the other hand, plucks a paddle from the stack and waves it in the air like he’s at a rodeo.

“It’s for charity, who knows?” Scotty chuckles.

“You’re impossible.” Angel elbows him in the ribs, but she’s smiling.

Then Ashlyn turns to me.

“Oh!” Her whole face lights up. “Marcy, I didn’t think we’d see you here tonight. This is wonderful!”

I force a smile. “Consider me here in my official capacity. Accountant. Supporter of civic events.”

“Well, since you’re here…” She fans out a few paddles like a magician about to do a card trick. “You’ll need one of these.”

Second thoughts flood me. “Oh—no. No, thank you.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Come on, it’s for charity. Just one little paddle. You don’t even have to use it.”

“No,” I say again, sharper this time. “Really. I’m not bidding.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence. The buzz of the crowd fills it, while Ashlyn studies me.

“All right,” she says softly, tucking the paddle back into her stack. “No pressure. Just glad you’re here.”

She moves on, and I pretend to be very interested in rearranging the fold of my dress.

Angel says nothing and Scotty, for once, doesn’t make a joke. I know what they’re thinking, but I didn’t come here to play games.

The lights dim slowly and a hush falls across the room, then the soft rustle of sequins and whispering and someone at the next table nervously hiccupping.

Ashlyn takes the stage again, steps up to the mic, and taps it once. “Good evening, Maple Falls and esteemed guests! What do you say we auction off some hockey players?”

Applause rolls across the room.

“Remember, every dollar helps us save Maple Falls. And maybe you’ll walk away with a date worth writing home about.”

More applause breaks out, plus a few hoots and one overly enthusiastic “WOO!” from the table near the front.

And then… I see him.

Just a flicker of movement behind the side curtain. A shoulder. A silhouette. The sharp, lean angle of someone adjusting his cufflink.

Clément.

He’s dressed in the same suit as the other guys, but with a perfectly tailored jacket. His hair is swept back. He doesn’t even need to stand tall to command attention, and still he does. Regal. Effortless. European menace and softhearted mystery, all rolled into one devastatingly handsome package.

He doesn’t see me.

Of course he doesn’t. I’m one of a hundred faces lost in shadow. Still, I lean forward, squinting through the twinkle lights, like I could reach him across the space.

When he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves again, eyes briefly down, then up toward the stage entrance with a look so obviously of apprehension, I ache for him. And that’s when the lights go out entirely.

A single spotlight slices through the dark, illuminating the center of the stage.

Ashlyn’s voice purrs through the speakers:

“ And now, ladies… it’s time to open your wallets for a good cause. ”