Page 1 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
CHAPTER 1
MARCY
With a flick of the wrist, I toss the wad of paper with draft calculations toward the garbage can on the other side of my cabin. It circles the rim and lands with a satisfying plop.
“Bingo.”
My softball days may be way behind me, but I haven’t completely lost my pitch.
The phone rings with an unknown number. I’ve alphabetized Happy Horizon’s financial files, but I haven’t touched my second cup of coffee, which makes the call feel like a personal attack.
"Your services are needed at town hall," says the voice on the line. It’s Phillip Bane, the assistant who always sounds like he’s in the middle of an existential crisis and a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. I cannot stand the guy. “Please arrive at three p.m. sharp.”
I pause, pen hovering over a sticky note labeled “Invoice Anomalies: September,” and mentally scroll through every possible reason Town Hall might summon me without notice.
Happy Horizons Ranch. That’s the first thing that comes to mind.
My stomach tenses. Happy Horizons Ranch is the children’s charity I work for, but it’s also my home. Technically, I handle their books, but I also shovel in the barn, feed chickens, and occasionally bake for the kids who come through. In return, Happy Horizons allows me to live in a small but cozy and comfy cabin on their grounds.
When I arrived in Maple Falls three years ago with nothing but three pencil skirts and a bag of puppy love for my hockey-playing high school sweetheart… well, let’s just say that I was in the direst of straits.
Thank goodness Maple Falls’s primary accountant had retired the year before. I had the credentials and the desperation to set up my first accounting firm at the age of twenty-one, and Happy Horizons was my first client. Much of the town followed suit.
Marcy Fontaine Accounting, here to help you navigate the jungle of fiscal responsibility.
Angel, who runs Happy Horizons, has the heart of a saint, a ton of attitude, and the filing system of a rabid raccoon. I love her, but she thinks reconciling receipts is optional. Spoiler: it’s not. And that’s where I really earn my keep.
I’m proud of what I’ve done here. Three years ago, Happy Horizons was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Now, thanks to some deeply un-fun budgeting decisions and the surge in support from the local hockey team, the Ice Breakers, we’re stable. Which is why I shouldn’t be nervous about this call.
And yet a call from Phillip Bane first thing in the morning never bodes well.
The day goes too slowly, and despite working on agorgeous puzzle of the French Riviera during my lunch hour, my stomach is in knots by the time I need to leave the ranch.
I smooth my blazer—navy, fitted, precise—and push my chair back. Most folks are still in sundresses and short sleeve polos, but I prefer structure. Structure breathes better than linen if you know how to wear it.
While Happy Horizons is a little distance from the center of town, I love the walk. I walka lot. It’s a great way to process difficult clients and challenging new tax laws. I pass the ice rink where those overpaid grown men hurl themselves into plexiglass for fun and money. I don’t get it. Hockey is just a mess in motion. Give me a ledger and a quiet room any day.
I’m not what you’d call a sports person.
I cross in front of the Maple Grounds, where they always know my order and don’t attempt small talk before 9:00 a.m. And then there’s the Town Hall. The air inside is aggressively air-conditioned. Phillip Bane is waiting for me in the hallway, arms crossed over his salmon-colored button-up like he’s about to deliver the State of the Union. His hair is tightly side-parted, and his expression is one of smug anticipation—never a good sign.
“Marcy Fontaine,” he says, drawing out the vowels like they’re expensive and he wants to get his money’s worth. “Glad you could make it.”
“You summoned me,” I reply, brushing past him toward the meeting room. “Unless ‘Please arrive at three p.m. sharp’ has a secret, more casual meaning.”
His loafers squeak behind me as he follows me into the singular meeting room of the Town Hall. Inside, he gestures to a stack of files waiting at the center of the table.
“I found something,” he says. If he had a mustache, he’d be twirling it. “In the municipal budget audit. A discrepancy.”
My spine stiffens. “A discrepancy?”
“Yes,” he says, placing a finger dramatically on a spreadsheet like it’s a smoking gun. “Here in the equipment expenditures line for summer events. The numbers don’t match the ledger submitted last quarter.”
I flip through the pages he’s printed on thick, unnecessarily glossy paper, and feel my heart rate start to tap dance. But then I see what he’s talking about.
“This isn’t a discrepancy,” I say flatly. “It’s a timing issue. The invoice was processed in July but paid in August becausesomeonedidn’t approve the check request on time.”
His eyes gleam. “Are you suggesting I delayed municipal processing?”
