Page 28 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

I haven’t been this nervous since I agreed to audit the elementary school that kept its records in crayon.

Clément is on stage, tall and dazzling in that team suit, looking like he wandered out of a European fashion spread.

The crowd is hollering, women waving paddles and grinning like they’re bidding on a beach vacation with room service and candlelight, not a very flustered Frenchman who’s two seconds from bolting off stage.

His smile is polite, but not real. I can see it. His eyes are darting, searching the room with a wide, bewildered energy. Despite the playful tilt of his mouth, he looks like a man dying to escape.

And now that I’m really watching him, I know he doesn't want this attention. Not from the beautiful women near the front row. Not from the flirty octogenarian in the red hat who keeps yelling things like “Take off your cravat, sweetheart!”

He’s floundering. And for some reason, it hits me hard.

This isn’t the Clément who flirted with me over cupcakes or coaxed Edgar into obedience like a goat-whispering magician. This is a man who looks trapped.

And I hate it.

It’s not that I’m against charity. Or even against lighthearted objectification. This is Maple Falls, after all, and this entire town runs on baked goods, nostalgia, and mild scandal. But there’s something in Clément’s face right now, something real and raw and not okay .

I never expected to feel connected to him, not after the lies about tonight. But here I am, heart climbing into my throat as I hope someone will throw him a lifeline.

The paddle the mayor tried to hand me earlier flashes in my mind. I should’ve taken it, just in case. Not because I wanted to own a date with a man I’m desperately trying not to fall for, but because I could’ve gotten him out of this.

My fingers tighten around the hem of my dress. I’ve been hiding behind my principles, my spreadsheets, and my skepticism, but the truth is I care. I care too much. And I can’t unsee the way he looked for me in the crowd.

Then Ashlyn calls out again: “Going once, going twice…”

My heart lurches. And then in a clear and thunderous deep voice, “Over here!”

Heads swivel. Mine whips around so fast my neck pops. “Scotty?”

He’s grinning like a man who just told the punchline.

Angel lets out a shocked laugh. “What are you doing?”

Scotty leans back in his chair, completely unbothered. “What? I’ve been needing to rebuild the northern paddock. Man like that could help me pour new footers and haul fencing for miles. Did you see those arms? He’s a regular French excavator.”

My jaw drops. “You’re betting on a date to use Clément as ranch labor? ”

Scotty shrugs and flaps his paddle. “It’s for charity. Plus, we’ll give him all the fresh eggs he can carry.”

Up on stage, Clément’s eyes dart to the corner of the room where we’re sitting. The moment he sees Scotty waving his bidding paddle, his expression cracks. And he laughs.

Ashlyn is still chuckling, fanning the crowd with delight at the unexpected bid. “Looks like our goalie’s headed to the farm, folks. Any more takers?”

But Clément isn’t watching the crowd. His wheels are turning and I see it happen. That tiny lift of his chin and a flash behind his eyes. The moment a lightbulb goes off.

He's got an idea.

Someone else in the crowd raises their paddle. Scotty grins and tosses his paddle onto the table. “Guess I’m off the hook.”

The crowd laughs, and Ashlyn is hyping it up.

Clément steps back from center stage, scanning the crowd. Then he jumps down. His shoes thump on the floor, and he strides toward the audience like he’s the star of a one-man show. My stomach lurches.

He's coming this way.

But he veers at the last second and heads straight for Scotty.

He leans in close, whispering. Scotty’s eyes widen, then he bursts out laughing and nods, handing Clément his paddle.

Clément lifts it high in the air.

“Clément, that’s not how things are done,” Ashlyn calls out. “You need to let the audience bid.”

“Why?” he demands. “I thought the whole point of this charade was to make money. My money is as good as theirs, no?” He waves his paddle at the crowd.

Ashlyn stumbles. "Well, folks, you know how those Europeans are. Eccentric! "

Clément turns, gives Ashlyn a mock salute.

"Do we have any bids higher than nine thousand five hundred?”

Clément lifts his paddle. His own paddle.

Gasps echo through the room and Angel chokes on her cider. "Did he just?—?"

Scotty lets out a belly laugh. "That man is out here bidding on himself."

And just like that, the bidding spirals.

We are well into five figures when Clément calls again, lifting his paddle.

The crowd is wild now, people laughing, hooting, clapping.

I don’t even realize I’ve covered my face until Angel pries my hands away. "You have to see this,” she says. “He’s winning."

"He’s insane."

"He wants to be yours ."

I don’t answer that.

Finally, there’s silence. Ashlyn waits, but no one else speaks.

"Going, going, gone! The Frenchman wins a date with himself!”

The room erupts. Laughter, cheers, applause, and many comments about “those Europeans.”

Clément bows, rushes back on stage, and then looks toward me through the crowd.

And he smiles like he just won the lottery.

Ashlyn clears her throat, trying to bring some semblance of order back to the room. “Well, Maple Falls, that was certainly unexpected. Let’s give a big round of applause for our very own Frenchie, Clément Rivière! Now let’s keep the energy going for our next bachelor, Weston Smith! ”

The spotlight swings as Weston steps onto the stage, waving with the casual charm of someone who’s very aware of his rolled-up sleeves and rakish smirk.

Not that I care, because Clément is walking straight toward me.

The noise dulls to a hum, like I’m underwater. I blink rapidly, heart pounding like I’ve sprinted a mile. I sit up straighter, unsure whether to run or anchor myself to the folding chair with all my might.

He’s weaving through the crowd, offering polite smiles and nods, one hand tucked in the pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers, the other curled into a small fist.

He stops just in front of my chair. Everyone around us is watching Weston—thankfully—but a few eyes flick toward us, a murmur of curiosity starting to build.

“Marcy,” he says, voice low enough that it’s for me alone.

“Yes?” I hate how breathless I sound.

He holds something small between his fingers, glinting under the overhead lights.

He reaches for my hand and places the object in my palm. It’s metal, light, and circular.

I glance down. It’s a coin, or no, not quite. A token.

“It says Paris Métro,” I read aloud from the worn embossing.

He nods his head once. “It’s a metro token.

They are obsolete now, but I kept this one because I love what it reminds me of.

I carried it with me when I moved here. And if you’ll be its temporary owner, I would love to give my date with myself…

to you.” His face scrunches up. “That sounded much better in my head.”

“You want to give yourself to me?” The words reach my own ears. “Okay, that sounded weird, too. ”

He laughs and then looks nervous. “Do you accept? As the rules say, whatever you want is what we’ll do.”

This man is showing me so many different sides to himself within an hour that my head is spinning. Though the answer is already clear. “I accept.”

He closes my fingers around it. “No games. Just me.”

Before I can say anything else, before I can even process the strange warmth blooming in my chest, he turns and melts back into the crowd, leaving the scent of his cologne and the coin in my palm.