Page 30 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

I have a date with Clément Rivière in less than thirty minutes.

So naturally, I’m elbow-deep in chicken feed.

Scotty asked if I could help him stack bags of grain before the next delivery, and I said yes.

I don’t particularly enjoy hauling massive sacks across uneven dirt, but it gave me an excuse to do what I do best: pretend I’m not nervous.

Pretend I don’t have a date. Pretend that I’m not secretly a teenager again, all twisted up with hope and dread and “what if he actually likes me?”

And I can ignore the truth that comes back to haunt me yet again:

I’ve never been on a date.

With Paul, things just happened without dates or any discussion.

We never had to define what we were back then, because we were kids—as a couple, we just were .

Same classes. Same friends. Same track through life.

Ever since we split, I’ve kept myself busy and the thought of a date never even entered my mind.

That’s why it’s easier to shovel grain into a bin and let the dusty quiet of Happy Horizons soak into my skin rather than face the fact that Clément gave me a date in front of half the town.

That I said yes. That in about twenty-six minutes, he’s going to show up and I’ll still smell like chicken coop.

“Hand me that feed scoop,” I tell Scotty, not bothering to wipe the sweat from my temple.

“You sure?” he asks. “I can finish it off?—”

“I’m already here.”

Scotty shrugs and hands me the scoop, going back to the fencing he’s repairing. The sun’s still high, casting long amber beams across the property. Sheep are bleating softly in the next pen over, and Edgar’s chewing on what looks suspiciously like one of Angel’s flip-flops.

It’s peaceful. If I forget what time it is, I can almost believe this is a regular day.

That is until a screech cuts across the yard. “Scotty! Where’s Marcy?!”

His head doesn’t even lift. “She’s with me! Coop duty!”

“ Nooooo! ”

“Oh, no,” I whisper, just as Angel comes bursting through the barn doors in a flurry.

She skids to a stop in the dirt, stares at me, takes in my entire ensemble—sweaty T-shirt, mud-dotted jeans, frizzy hair from coop humidity—and practically levitates with horror.

“What are you doing ?”

“I’m helping.”

“You have a date! ”

“I have time! ” I call back, gesturing toward my phone, like time will save me from the messy truth of the situation.

“Marcy.” Angel’s voice drops into serious territory. “You’ve been pining over this man for weeks. ”

My jaw drops. “I have not.”

Angel gives me a look. “Please. You reorganize the supply cupboard alphabetically every time he texts you.”

I open my mouth. Close it. “Not the point.”

Angel points at me, scandalized. “You cannot go on a date looking like this.”

“Who said it’s my first-ever date?” I declare defensively, before realizing that’s not at all what she just said.

They both stare.

“I mean…” I glance down at myself. “Did I just say that? Okay, fine. It is.”

Angel’s hand covers her heart. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve never?—?”

Scotty fumbles with a zip tie. “Never?”

“Nope. Never had one. Not a real one. Not where someone actually… tried.” I glance toward the horizon. “Not unless you count the time Paul took me with his friends to see Fast Cars and Fury 7 and left partway through because he got bored.”

Angel rushes forward and takes me by the shoulders. “Honey,” she says with copious maternal affection.

Scotty shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re smart. Gorgeous. Responsible. The kind of woman most guys would crawl through chicken poop to impress.”

“Not that chicken poop should be part of the date,” Angel adds with a side-eye to Scotty. “So what do you have planned for this date?"

Planned. That's a big word. I warned Clément to be prepared for anything, and I meant it because I actually have no idea.

"I figured I'd give him a cup of tea and then we'd work on the ranch."

Scotty and Angel's jaws drop in synchronized shock.

"What?” I shrug the way I used to when I was a teenager. “Scotty needs the help, and I thought it would be fun for Clément to do something he's never done before. Like shoe a pony…"

Even as I'm saying it, it feels ridiculous.

“Oh, sweetie, we have to get you cleaned up. We’ve got—” she checks her phone—“seventeen minutes.”

“A date. A real date.” I bite my lip.

“Exactly,” Angel puts her hands on my shoulders. “With a man who only tries to prove again and again that he’s a good one and you were going to make him shovel chicken poop.”

I gasp. “What was I thinking?”

Angel is already dragging me by the elbow. “You weren’t. But we’re thinking now. Operation Date Rescue begins.”

And just like that, I’m yanked from denial into a full-blown crisis.

With chicken feed in my bra and a metro token in my pocket.

Angel turns to Scotty like she’s commanding a battalion. “You. Set the platform in front of the barn. Clean tablecloth, candles. Not the citronella ones, we’re not warding off vampires. And get that speaker from the house. I want Ella Fitzgerald!”

Scotty salutes. “Yes, General.” He hollers over his shoulder, “Lil! Andy! We’ve got a date emergency!”

“Are you being romantic for Mom again?” Andy shouts back from the ranch house.

Lily groans, “Gross. ”

“Not us—Marcy!” Scotty barks. “She’s got a gentleman caller incoming.”

“For goodness’ sake,” I mutter, face flaming. “Can we not use the phrase gentleman caller ? I’m not eighty.”

Angel ignores my comment with commands. “You. Inside. Now.”

I’m pushed into my own cabin, still slightly dusty as Lily and Lisette join us.

Lily and Angel are moving full speed ahead and it’s a flurry of fabric, makeup bags, and hairbrushes.

Lisette sets herself down on the porch when Lily shouts, “I’m heating the curling iron!

” and suddenly I’m in the middle of what can only be described as a reverse barnyard fairytale.

Angel rips open the closet and works her way through my wardrobe. “No. No. Definitely not—why is this even in here?” She pulls out a soft blue sundress with a cinched waist and tiny embroidered flowers that I wore only once because it felt too colorful. “This. It’s ranch date perfection.”

“Does it come with ranch date instructions?” I laugh, a weak sound that incites a look of pity from Angel and Lily.

With my hair set and dress on, Angel curls my hair on the porch. Scotty has enlisted Andy to sweep the platform in front of the barn. “Do you think Clément’s bringing flowers?” he asks Lily, who’s setting two mismatched mason jars with candles inside them like she was born doing tablescapes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lily says. “He’s French. He’s bringing poetry.”

“Breathe, sweetie,” Angel says as she rolls the curling iron dangerously close to my scalp. “You’ve got this. He’s going to show up, fall head over heels, and then you’re going to pretend you’re not already halfway there.” She sprays a ton of hairspray over me.

I swat at the air and cough. “I am not halfway there. ”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

I roll my eyes and swipe on lip balm. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

“You do realize you say that a lot these days.” Angel steps back and beams at me in the mirror. “You look perfect.”

That’s when we hear a rumble, the purr. A motorcycle pulling up the gravel drive.

Angel claps. “Fifteen minutes late. I love European time.”

My stomach swoops.

Scotty calls, “He’s here!” just as Lily mutters, “And he’s hot,” and Andy adds, “Like, annoyingly so.”

I stand there, curled, dressed, and far too flammable from the neck up.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I walk up to the gate.

Behind me, I feel them watching. Angel, Scotty, the kids, a couple of the ranch crew. No one says a word.

The breeze is cool against my skin, though my palms are damp. My heart’s beating so fast I’m not sure if it’s excitement or terror. It’s both.

I’ve never done this before.

I stop just before the gate and glance back once—Angel nods and Scotty gives me a soft smile.

“Twenty-five years old,” I mutter to myself. “Never had a date. And I’m starting with Clément Rivière. Pro hockey goalie. Frenchman extraordinaire.”

A nervous laugh escapes me, then I square my shoulders and push the gate open.

Here goes nothing.