Page 43 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

A FEW WEEKS LATER…

Everything smells like cinnamon.

The kitchen of the ranch house at Happy Horizons is covered in sweet potatoes, casserole dishes, and an alarming number of miniature marshmallows.

Angel’s got two aprons on—one over her dress, one somehow tied around her hair like she’s staging a kitchen rebellion—and I’m standing at the counter, elbow-deep in a dish she insists is essential to a proper American Thanksgiving.

Lisette is underfoot again, giggling as she weaves between our legs like a mischievous kitten in footie pajamas.

At one point, she parks herself in front of the oven and starts narrating the turkey’s journey with the seriousness of a newscaster.

“The chicken is sleeping in the fire bed,” she declares, then crawls over to poke my shin.

“You need a hat like Mama.” I glance at Angel, who shrugs before tying a tea towel on my head.

“Now fold the cranberries in,” she says, eyes sparkling as she dumps a bowl of ruby-red berries next to me .

I look down at the batter. “Fold? Like in origami?”

“No,” she says, fighting back a laugh. “You gently turn the mixture over the berries. Not stir. Fold.”

I frown. “Is folding salad an American thing? Because in France, we stir things. With confidence.”

Angel points a spatula at me. “You stir that, and I swear to the turkeys, our cranberry fluff salad will be going in the compost.”

I raise my hands in surrender, then attempt the most delicate folding motion imaginable.

It’s less “gently combine” and more “awkward pancake flip,” but she lets me continue with a sigh.

In the background, Andy yells from the dining room about a missing gravy boat, and Scotty shouts back, “Check with Edgar!” which I sincerely hope is a joke.

The last I heard, Lisette was explaining how unicorns gave birth to turkeys. But that was five suspiciously quiet minutes ago.

“Hang on,” Angel stops. “Why is it so quiet?”

We both turn in unison.

Lisette is standing on a chair, beaming like a tiny kitchen deity, her curls dusted white and her hands wrist-deep in the flour container.

The floor looks like it’s been hit by a blizzard.

The table, the counters, and most of the lower cabinets are blanketed in powder.

The markers are gone—possibly buried. She sneezes and leaves a cloud of flour in the air like a magician’s finale.

“Oh, no,” Angel breathes, stepping forward.

Lisette lifts her flour-covered palms. “I’m bakin’, Mama!”

I can’t help it—I laugh. I’m not the only one.

Angel pinches the bridge of her nose, but she’s smiling too. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mutters, scooping her daughter into her arms .

“Don’t worry,” I say, grabbing a rag. “In France, this would be considered avant-garde cuisine. I’ll clean it up.”

Angel adjusts Lisette on her hip and glances toward the front window. “Hey, where’s Marcy? She didn’t take off for Paris again, did she?”

I grin, tossing the rag into the sink. “She better not have. If she did, I’m climbing into the next overhead compartment.”

Angel laughs, already bouncing Lisette on her hip as she disappears down the hallway.

I lean against the counter for a second, letting the quiet settle, flour drifting in the air like confetti. The scent of cinnamon and roasting turkey fills the room, but my mind drifts back to Paris—where everything really began to make sense.

The Ice Breakers gave me a short leave of absence to recuperate, so we stayed at my place on the Marais, on a street with lopsided cobblestones and a bakery that made her tear up with joy our first morning.

She walked with her head tilted up, absorbing every wrought-iron balcony like it was her first time seeing sky.

She made me take a picture of her in front of every bookstore, every flower cart, every carousel.

She even tried escargot—once—then spent fifteen minutes explaining to the waiter that she respected the cultural experience but never wanted to do it again.

But more than what we saw, it was how we felt. The pace slowed. The pressure lifted. Our second night hanging with my oldest group of friends, only Mathieu was missing but he video-called to join the fun and to deliver some excellent news: I finally had my building permit.

Without any details, the mayor had said my house was “not at any risk anymore.” That was enough for me.

Marcy and I toasted that night, as my friends all came over to celebrate everything falling into place.

I’ve got my spot with the Ice Breakers, and I’ve also got a foot in the door with the new team in Paris.

Marcy and I agreed that I’ll go back and forth, and when she can, she’ll join me.

The house can finally get fixed up the way it should, and the home I’ve dreamed of will be a reality.

Most of all, I’ve got Marcy at my side. That night in Paris, with my friends over, showed me again how perfect we are for each other.

She fit right in, offering to help chop vegetables and engaging in a half-hour debate with my buddy, étienne, about the superiority of American peanut butter. Somewhere between a riverboat ride on the Seine and that night, I knew we just… fit. No pushing. No pretending.

Paris is home, but with her, it becomes something new.

I know my future is with her, and I can’t wait for just the right moment to ask her to be mine forever. I bought the ring on the Champs Elysée while she was sipping an espresso and admiring the view.

While Paris with her was perfect, I couldn’t wait to get home to Maple Falls. Thanksgiving is, after all, mythic here.

Happy Horizons Ranch has become yet another home for me, and that thought keeps me smiling as I continue to clean up the flour Lisette cast over the kitchen.

Gravel crunches outside. Not a car, but feet.

The sound yanks me upright. My heartbeat spikes—same way it did that day I found Marcy doubled over, trying not to pass out in front of my house. I don’t even think. I’m already moving, pushing past the swinging door and down the steps two at a time.

“Marcy?” I call, scanning the drive.

Then I hear it. Not one set of footsteps—two. Maybe three. Some of them distinctly… not human ?

Marcy appears from behind a set of pine trees like a comet in a pencil skirt—heels discarded, hair flying, face lit up with a massive grin. And she’s holding a leash.

At the end of said leash is a goat.

But not Edgar. No, this one is smaller. Sleeker. Deep brown like dark chocolate in the shade, with ears that stick out like antennae and a tongue lolling to the side like it’s had a day .

“Clément!” Marcy gasps, breathless and utterly delighted. “Look who I found!”

The goat stops, then promptly launches into a series of enthusiastic hops, nearly dragging Marcy into a bush.

“Is it… smiling?” I blink. “ Oh la la , it has dimples.”

“She’s a therapy goat named Rose,” she says, panting and beaming like she just won the lottery. “And she’s ours now.”

I stare. Then grin. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you adopt a goat?”

“Well,” she says with sparkling eyes, “I adopted her in celebration.”

Angel steps out onto the porch, Lisette still perched on her hip like a giggling, flour-dusted parrot. She catches sight of the goat and lets out a squeal that could probably be heard across the valley.

“Did you say something about celebration ?” She grins, shifting Lisette to her other side as she hurries down the steps.

Behind her, the screen door bangs open again.

Scotty steps out, arm looped around Lily—her hair freshly brushed and still damp from her afternoon shower.

Andy trails behind them, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets, eyebrows already raised at the goat, which is now happily sniffing the welcome mat .

“I go inside for five minutes and come back to… goat acquisition?” Scotty says, half amused, half resigned.

“She’s not just a goat,” Marcy says, breathless. “She’s a sign.”

Andy squints. “A sign of what?”

“A sign that today is huge, ” she says, waving the leash like a ribbon.

“I just came from town and—well, okay, technically, I was across the road from town hall, but news travels fast when Mrs. Fishman’s in line at the post office and mentions something to Randy, who tells the UPS guy, who then tells Jenelle—who told me. ”

Everyone’s leaning forward now. Even the goat.

Marcy lifts a finger, eyes dancing. “Are you ready for this?”

Angel bounces Lisette, who nods solemnly. “Ready.”

Marcy takes a breath, then grins. “Alexander MacDonald has officially gifted Maple Falls the entire plot of land. The deal’s done. Signed, sealed, delivered. It’s ours. ”

For a beat, there’s silence.

Then Angel gasps. Lily claps. Andy whoops. Scotty just closes his eyes and exhales like a ten-pound weight has lifted off his chest. Lisette giggles watching everyone’s reaction.

Marcy turns to me, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “What a wild ride, huh?”

I reach for her hand. “Best Thanksgiving I ever could have imagined.”

A loud crash rings out from inside the house and everyone freezes.

Angel gasps. “Edgar!”

We turn just in time to see him appear in the doorway like a goat-shaped wrecking ball, a whole spray of carrot peels dangling from his mouth. His hooves skid on the porch as he stops, spots the new goat, and cocks his head in slow motion like he’s processing a cosmic revelation.

Then bam . He bolts straight toward her.

“Don’t you dare bite our new goat friend—” Angel starts.

She didn’t have to worry. Edgar spits the half-chewed carrot peels right onto the ground like an offering. The new goat doesn’t hesitate. She munches happily while Edgar nuzzles against her with the unbothered confidence of a creature who’s certain he’s just met the love of his life.

“Well,” Scotty says, wrapping an arm around Lil’s shoulder as they all turn back toward the house. “Looks like someone’s got himself a Thanksgiving date.”

Everyone laughs, then filters inside one by one, still chuckling and shaking their heads—leaving just me, Marcy, and the two goats on the porch.

She slips her hand into mine.

“Think they’re soulmates?” Marcy asks, nodding toward Edgar, now curled protectively around his new goat friend like he’s known her forever.

“Absolutely,” I say, slipping an arm around her. “And I should know. I’m French—we’re experts in soulmates.”

She lets out a soft laugh, tucking herself into my side. “Is that so?”

“National specialty.”

She looks up at me, her voice barely above a whisper. “You think an ice queen could ever be a romantic Frenchman’s soulmate?”

I pause, just long enough for her to feel how I contemplate it, except that I knew the answer long ago.

I think about the ring being designed in Paris and the elaborate proposal I have planned. About the way she smiles now, without hesitation, so different from when we first met. About the fact that I’ve never once wanted to belong to anyone until she appeared in my life.

But all I say is, “Only if she promises not to run off to Paris without me again.”

She laughs again. “Deal.”

I pull her close and kiss her with every ounce of my soul, as the goats snuffle behind us, and the scent of cinnamon drifts through the air.

She rests her head on my shoulder and gratitude fills me. Life is simply…

Parfait.

Perfect.

I close my eyes and hold her tight, whispering through my emotion the only words I can manage because my dreams are finally coming true.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Marcy.”

Don’t stop now! Weston and Fiona have a wild ride for you in Soulmates and Slapshots by Melissa Baldwin. And you’ll learn more about how Maple Falls was saved as you continue reading the series!

She’s escaping the city. He’s chasing a fresh start. In a town full of surprises, love might be the biggest one.

Fiona

I’m a city girl turned temporary small-town resident—yes, I know, sounds cliché.

But I needed this. A break from Manhattan.

.. and from the near-collapse of the life I thought I had figured out.

When my aunt invited me to Maple Falls, I didn’t hesitate.

I packed my suitcase and left the city lights behind for something quieter.

Life moves slower here, and maybe that’s exactly what my overworked brain needs. I’ve even made a few new friends—one of them being Weston Smith, a new player for the Ice Breakers hockey team. He happens to be there for me at a pivotal moment, no questions asked.

Meanwhile, there’s a major crisis unfolding in town, and I feel pulled to get involved.

Maybe it’s the fresh air or maybe it’s Weston.

I came here planning to leave, but the longer I stay, the harder it is to imagine walking away from this town.

.. and from the people who are starting to feel like home.