Page 8 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

CLéMENT

I cannot believe my luck.

Marcy Fontaine. In my house.

Okay, it’s a house-shaped disaster zone with exposed insulation and one functioning light fixture, but still. She’s here. In my space. Smoldering, damp, and still somehow elegant in the folding chair I found in the basement.

She’s flushed, out of breath, and muttering to herself. I’ve never seen anyone so captivating while falling apart.

She shakes her head like she’s trying to reboot. “No, no, no, no, no. ”

I tilt my head and wonder where that single glass is. I think she needs water. “Are you okay?”

She looks up. “Oh, I’m fine ,” she says, in a voice that is neither calm nor convincing. “Perfectly fine. Just peachy. I mean, who doesn’t love being carried off the street like a damsel in distress by a shirtless goalie?”

“Technically,” I say, holding back a grin, “you were folded like a pretzel and asking the sidewalk for medical advice. ”

She shoots me a glare so sharp it could deglaze a pan. “I was managing .”

“Of course,” I say, raising both hands in surrender. “You were exuding composure. The skirt smelling like coffee and winded gasping only enhanced the mystique .”

“I wasn’t gasping.”

“You were whispering sweet nothings to your spleen.”

She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and for a second, I think she might smile.

But then she narrows her eyes, tilts her head slightly, and the temperature in the room drops by three degrees.

“You don’t get to be charming about this,” she says.

“I wasn’t trying to be?—”

“You were definitely trying to be.”

Okay. Fair.

I scrub a hand through my hair. “Look, I didn’t plan to be shirtless when you arrived. I was working shirtless. It’s not my lifestyle.”

“Sure.” She closes her eyes, unimpressed. And yet—her foot is still twitching in that way people do when they’re trying not to bolt. I’m missing something.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I say, more sincerely now. “You came running down the street, then collapsed in pain. I panicked. I’m not exactly used to women in agony showing up at my windows.”

“It happens.” She sighs and folds her arms. Then her gaze darts briefly to the floor, then to the ceiling— anywhere but my face.

And now I’m officially confused.

I stare. “What did I miss?”

She looks at me for a long moment, like she’s weighing whether I’m worth the explanation .

“Let’s just say,” she mutters, “I have a very specific policy about hockey players.”

I wait a second, wondering what I’m missing. “But I am a hockey player.”

“Yes,” she says tightly. “It makes sense now.”

So I wasn’t wrong when I saw that she had been hurt. But that hockey should have anything to do with it feels extra unlucky. For me. “Did a goalie steal your identity? Did a forward break into your tax software? I feel like this is bigger than my needing a permit.”

She presses her lips together, eyes sharp. “You have no idea.”

She’s right, I don’t. But I do know that she looks like she’s on the edge of either slapping me or kissing me, and I’m not sure which one would be more life-affirming.

So I go for neutral ground.

“Would you like some water?” I ask. “Or a chair that wasn’t assembled with duct tape and ambition?”

She snorts.

Progress.

“I really appreciate the surprise paramedic act,” she says, standing up from the folding chair with slow precision. “But I should get going.”

My heart drops a little and I scramble for a reason to keep her here. Anything. I eye the half-eaten protein bar on the counter like it’s going to help me out.

“It’s too late,” I blurt.

She tilts her head. “Late?”

“You can’t show up now. It’s already after the dinner hour.” I cross my arms, hoping it makes me look authoritative. “I don’t know how you do it in America, but where I come from, showing up unannounced after dinner is a true faux pas . ”

“This person will want what I’ve got,” she says, nodding at the binder she’s clutching like it’s the crown jewels.

“It’s almost a mile to town,” I say. “And it’s dark.”

She shrugs, casual. “The walk will probably do me good. Walk, not run,” she adds.

I chuckle under my breath, but I’m still desperate for an excuse. "There might be thieves. Wolves. Other small town dangers. I can take you."

"I know Maple Falls like the back of my hand. This isn’t Paris, monsieur ."

"Fine," I say. "But in France, there are manners. If you rescue a woman from self-combustion and injury, you must also see her safely to her destination. It’s a rule."

“You are dogged.”

She’s got my number already, and it makes me smile. “And I won’t give up.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Stops.

I wait.

Finally, she sighs. “Honestly, I am exhausted.”

I pounce, figuratively. "Shall I carry you to our chariot? I have practice now," I tease.

Marcy rolls her eyes, but she lets me guide her toward the mailbox where my bike is parked.

She stops dead when she sees it.

"You have a motorcycle?" she says, voice a little higher than normal.

I grin. "You sound surprised, Marcy Fontaine. Didn’t think the Frenchman would be so daring?"

She narrows her eyes. "I thought you’d be more the fast convertible type."

"I contain multitudes," I say solemnly, handing her my extra helmet.

“As long as you don’t have a private plane. ”

“Just the bike, mademoiselle .”

She hesitates. Looks at the helmet like it might bite. Then she takes it, sliding it on with slow, reluctant movements. "I am capable of walking, you know.”

"But why would you, when you can ride in style?" I flip the visor down for her, brushing my fingers against her shoulder accidentally-on-purpose.

She mutters under her breath and it sounds suspiciously like "drama king," but she adjusts her singed skirt and climbs onto the back of the bike anyway.

I feel it the second she wraps her arms around me—tight at first, then adjusting, then hesitating like she’s hyper-aware of every point where our bodies touch. Which makes me hyper-aware of it too.

Her front presses against my back, warm even through layers. Her hands grip the sides of my jacket in a way that makes it very clear she’s not used to this. Not used to being this close to someone.

Neither am I, not like this.

I rev the engine low, giving her a second to settle.

Then we take off.

The wind lifts my hair, cool and sharp against my face, but it’s her—the feeling of her clutching me, her chin brushing my shoulder once when we turn—that heats me from the inside out.

Marcy holds on tighter when we round the first curve.

The streetlights blur past us in a slow golden wash. Every bump in the road shifts her a little closer, and every shallow breath she takes feels like it’s stitched directly into me.

We come to a fork in the road, and over the roar of the bike, she yells, “Turn left here!”

I hear it. I process it .

And I turn right.

“Hey!” she shouts, jostling behind me. “I said left!”

I glance back at her over my shoulder, grinning wide under my helmet. “Language problem! I misunderstood.”

She smacks my shoulder lightly. I pretend not to feel the warmth blooming in me. I just want an extra few minutes.

A few more minutes of her arms around me, pretending she doesn’t like it. A few more minutes of the way her legs squeeze tighter when we take the curve, like she trusts me without meaning to.

A few more minutes before she figures out I’m not as casual about this as I look.

Indeed, a few winding minutes later—too few—we pull up outside the mayor’s home. I kill the engine but leave us sitting there in the quiet for a moment longer.

"I can wait," I offer. "Drive you home after."

Marcy slides off the bike carefully, removing the helmet and shaking out her hair in a way that makes it very hard to breathe.

"I’m good," she says.

“I mean it?—”

“I’ll be a while. And you professional sportsmen need your beauty rest.”

I hesitate. She raises one eyebrow. The serious one.

Reluctantly, I swing my leg over the bike and mount up again. “I’ll text you tomorrow to make sure your tryst with jogging doesn’t have lasting consequences.”

“You have my number?” She looks at me like I might have been internet stalking, so I quickly pull out her business card from my wallet and hold it in the air.

" Bonne soirée, mademoiselle ," I say, but it hardly feels like enough .

She gives a tiny nod, clutching her binder.

I rev the engine and take off down the street. At the corner, something makes me glance back.

There she is, standing on the sidewalk, binder in hand, watching me go.

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt all the way to my condo.