Page 9 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

“ M arcy?”

I flutter my eyes awake as I’m shaken into existence. Someone is gripping my shoulders, and when I open my eyes, all I see is Ashlyn’s face in the light of the front porch.

“You’re drooling,” she says gently.

I swipe at my cheek and sit up straight.

Apparently, I’ve fallen asleep sitting up on Ashlyn Thompkins’s front porch.

Last thing I remember, I was knocking on her front door and circling her house before realizing someone might call the police or at least start unwanted rumors, so I sat on the front step to wait.

“Why are you here?” she asks, crouching beside me. “Are you okay?”

“I have news,” I say quickly, hoisting the binder. “I ran here,”—she doesn’t need the details of my goalie motorcycle taxi—“but you weren’t home.”

“You could have sent me a text.”

“Ms. Thompkins,” I say as I work myself to my feet, “I am a consummate professional, and a situation like this cannot be trusted to text.”

Ashlyn stands, squinting at me like she’s not entirely convinced I haven’t had a full mental breakdown. “You have a leaf in your bun.” She starts to smile, then stops abruptly. “Marcy, is your skirt… singed?”

I look down. There’s a suspiciously crispy edge near the hem.

Ashlyn blinks. “You need a vacation.”

“No time,” I say, snapping the binder open and flipping to a color-coded page marked with sticky tabs.

“But we do have a temporary reprieve. I went through the land transfer documentation and double-checked with a legal contact I trust from my D.C. internship. There’s a required ninety-day moratorium before any formal claim can be acted on. ”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Ashlyn’s whole body deflates with relief. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t joke about municipal law,” I say. “It’s probably in the town charter.”

She laughs and then pulls me into a hug before I can brace for it.

I freeze. My arms hover like I’m buffering in real life.

“Thank you, Marcy,” she says as she squeezes tighter. “I mean it. This buys us time we desperately needed.”

I awkwardly pat her back once, then clear my throat. “I’ll keep looking for a more permanent solution. Maybe there’s an easement loophole or historic preservation clause. Or a zoning technicality we can exploit.”

“You’re kind of incredible,” Ashlyn says, releasing me.

I may be exhausted and slightly embarrassed about drooling on the de facto mayor’s porch, but those words bolster me up .

“Come on,” she says, tipping her head toward the car. “I’ll drop you at home. I don’t want you passing out on the way.”

Clément Rivière’s cheeky smile shows up before my alarm.

In my dream.

Just—boom. Right there. Sparkling eyes, wind-tousled hair, that maddening grin like he just got away with something inappropriate but charming.

I groan and roll onto my back.

Absolutely not.

This is a boundary violation. My brain is supposed to be reserved for spreadsheets and zoning laws and rethinking my stance on sugar intake, not the memory of a French hockey player whose chest was unfairly symmetrical.

Ugh.

I sit up and shove my blanket off, immediately regretting it. The air in the cabin is brisk, the kind of cold that makes your ankles feel personally betrayed. My feet hit the cold floorboards, which is when I realize I forgot to bring my slippers in last night. Again.

That’s because as soon as I was home, I was back at my laptop, going over everything I could find and ultimately, I found nothing.

I’m taking one last look over my notes when my phone buzzes on the counter beside the toaster oven.

“Marcy Fontaine Accounting,” I answer, already reaching for a pen with my free hand.

“It’s worse than we thought, Marcy,” comes Ashlyn’s voice, fast and unfiltered .

My stomach drops. “Ms. Thompkins? What do you mean? How bad is it?”

“Victor MacDonald owned the land the arena is on,” she says. “And a big chunk of Main Street.”

I stagger back a step. “No!”

“I’m guessing his heir knows this and he’s going to play hardball. I mean, why wouldn’t he?”

If we know this, then that sleazeball representative for the heir—Jeremy Hunt, even the name oozes big-city detachment—must know it too. I groan loud enough to startle the chickens outside. “Do you have an emergency meeting called yet?”

“I asked my dad’s assistant to do it,” she says, “but the guy hates me.”

I slap the table. “That Phillip Bane is the bane of my existence!”

There’s silence where I imagine her nodding solemnly. “Exactly. I’m not overly optimistic he’s going to make it happen.”

“I’ll do it,” I say, already mentally opening my spreadsheet of city council contacts. “I have all the names and numbers of the council members. I’ll set the meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”

Ashlyn exhales, and I can hear the tension unraveling slightly over the line. “I’m sure everyone will just love being called in on a Sunday.”

“At least most of them will probably be able to make it,” I reply. “Are you sure you don’t want to call your father?”

There’s a pause on the line.

“No,” she says. “But I’d like to see if I can handle this before I do.”

“Okay, I’ll make the meeting for two o’clock. That way stomachs will be full, and hopefully brains will be ready to come up with some great ideas.”

“Where does the city council meet?”

“There’s a room on the first floor of City Hall.” I hang up, set the phone down beside the goat-shaped creamer someone donated last year, and start working on the figures we’ll have to share at the meeting. If we’re going to fight for this town, I want every decimal point on our side.

My phone buzzes, and I quickly check to see if Ashlyn has more bad news. But it’s not her.

Unknown Number: Good morning, Mademoiselle Fontaine. You know your last name is French? I hope this is a sign you like crepes at the bistro, because I walked past it the other day and they smelled irresistible.

Is that a palpitation? I’ve never had a palpitation before, so I’m not sure that’s what’s happening, but it most definitely could be a palpitation.

This man is bad for my health.

Outside, a rooster crows, and someone yells, “Well, if I ever saw a cowlickin’ smudgefest!” That is definitely not Angel’s voice.

There’s only one guy at the ranch who talks that way. Still barefoot, I cross the room in my long cotton nightgown and swing open the cabin door.

The air bites at my legs, but I barely feel it. Scotty is lying flat on his back in the middle of the barn entrance, surrounded by a halo of straw and spilled grain. One hand’s gripping his lower back, and the other is clenched into a fist like he’s preparing to go down with honor.

“Scotty?” I call, already moving. “What happened? ”

He twists his head toward me, jaw tight. “Hey, Marcy. Just hanging out.”

I stop beside him, crouching down. “Uh-huh. Because lying down in the barn aisle at dawn is what all the cool kids are doing now?”

He flashes a quick, teeth-clenched smile. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

“I was moving one of the big hay bales to the paddock for today’s petting zoo. Got cocky. Then my back went pop like popcorn. I’m fine. It’s no big— ahhh —thing.”

The last word comes out through gritted teeth and very obvious pain.

“Scotty, you’re literally not moving.”

“Exactly. Very still. Very mindful.”

Before I can say more, three sets of boots thump against the gravel path. Lily and Andy rush over with Lisette close behind, still in their pajamas with rubber boots.

“Dad!” Lily gasps, dropping to her knees beside him.

Andy stands over him. “Did you break something?”

“I’m fine,” Scotty says for the third time as Lisette snuggles into his chest.

“Where’s Angel?” I ask.

“Farmers’ Market,” Andy says. “She left early to get the good tomatoes and maybe a squash that’s shaped like a duck for the petting zoo.”

“Of course she did,” I murmur.

Lily is patting her dad’s arm.

“I can’t be out of commission,” Scotty says. “I’m the only one who can move these bales and set up the outdoor pens before folks start arriving at noon.”

Fortunately—or unfortunately—I know exactly who to call.

Clément shows up in less than an hour and Happy Horizons is already a controlled mess.

Controlled, because I have six labeled clipboards and an army of color-coded task lists for today’s zoo.

A mess, because no matter how well I plan, the sense that Clément is out there somewhere is completely destabilizing.

There’s a low hum of excitement across the grounds—laughter, tables getting set up, hay scattered everywhere like confetti thrown by a restless farmer. By lunchtime, families from all over the county will be here for the fall petting zoo fundraiser. Angel’s brilliant idea, my logistical nightmare.

I’ve been elbow-deep in preparations and doing an excellent job of staying far away from one French hockey player turned hay-hauling volunteer. Until I hear him laugh.

It carries across the entire ranch. Deep enough to feel in my spine. I don’t want to smile, but my mouth has other plans. I clamp it shut and focus on getting milk.

Fresh milk is our usual offering to volunteers. It’s not like I’m doing anything special. I pour a big glass from the barn fridge for Clément, because the way he has been working non-stop deserves at least a glass of milk.

He’s out near the paddock, surrounded by hay bales and children climbing them like miniature sherpas scaling Mount Rainier.

Clément’s shirt is already stained and his forearms are dusted with straw.

He’s crouching down, talking to a little boy in oversized overalls, gesturing with both hands like he’s narrating a French fable.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, but the kids are rapt .

That is, until Edgar the goat starts chewing on his shirt.

“ Non, non, non—s’il te pla?t, ” Clément says, swatting behind him with zero success.

Edgar dodges the hand and doubles down, tugging the fabric.

Clément turns around and takes Edgar’s face in his hands.

He crouches down and murmurs something I can’t hear, but good golly, Edgar just nudged Clément’s cheek with his muzzle and strolled away.

Clément is a goat whisperer.

I cross the field and hold out the glass. “Peace offering.”

He stands and takes it gratefully, shirt slightly askew.

“You read my mind,” he says, raising the glass in a mock toast before taking a huge swig. His face freezes mid-sip. “It’s… amazing,” he says, with a wide smile and touch of a milk mustache.

“Compliments of Betsy,” I say, nodding toward the barn.

Betsy, our pride and joy, is a big milk cow with a sway to her hips and eyelashes that would make a supermodel weep. She’s mid-munch when she hears her name, then stops, chewing slowly as she lifts her massive head to stare directly at Clément.

“Is she…” he narrows his eyes, “winking at me?”

I squint. “It’s possible. She’s been known to get flirty with volunteers.”

“She has taste.”

“Mostly in salt licks and stolen granola bars.”

Betsy licks her nose and gives Clément a slow blink that might in fact be suggestive. He backs away a step.

“I don’t want to be forward,” he says, “but I think she’s into me. Should I be worried?”

“Depends. Are you into long-distance relationships with ruminants?”

“I’m more of a ‘fall for the woman who shows up with milk and judgment’ kind of guy. ”

I laugh, for no good reason than it was an automatic reaction. Clément looks a little too pleased with himself.

“Well,” I say, nodding toward the next stack of hay bales, “you’re doing a good job. And Edgar hasn’t chewed through your shirt entirely, so, ten out of ten.”

“ Merci ,” he says, mock-bowing slightly. “Should I reward myself with more mystery milk?”

“Only if you want Betsy to propose.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Would that make you jealous?”

Palpitations.

“Anyway, thanks, and there’s more milk in the fridge. It’s very nutrient rich,” I say, spinning on my heel and walking off toward the cider booth, pretending I’m extremely invested in the inventory of plastic cups.

Behind me, I hear him laugh again.