Page 11 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
There’s a cow named Betsy watching me from the other side of the corral, chewing slowly. I nod at her respectfully. She chews judgmentally in reply.
With a ton of black coffee in a mug that says, “Warning: Math at Work” and a folder labeled “Receipts – Assorted?” I settle in to manage Happy Horizon Ranch’s finances before I dig back into the not-so-small task of saving Maple Falls. I need a mental warm-up this early in the morning.
I drop the folder on my little desk and brace myself for battle. There are twelve mismatched envelopes inside. One of them is sticky. Another has “Worms” written in glitter pen.
I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth.Concentrate.
I fire up my laptop and pull up the budget spreadsheet I’ve been maintaining for the ranch since they nearly went under three years ago. That was when I first got involved. Angel had put out a desperate call for someone who could “do numbers.” She’d expected a bored retiree. She got me instead.
Freshly dumped. No job. No plan. No return bus ticket.
A flight back to New York was never an option. Buses exist. So do trains. So does logic. And as I’ve said many times before, humans don’t have wings.
Three years later, I’m still here. Still organized. Still “too intense,” probably—but now I know that’s a good thing.
People like me keep things from falling apart.
I spot Edgar the goat standing by the water pump with something suspiciously paper-like in his mouth.
“Edgar,” I say, voice low. Warning issued.
He chews, and I’d swear that goat just raised an eyebrow at me.
“Marcyyyyyyyyy…”
Angel’s voice floats in through the window, carried on a breeze and what sounds like a goat stampede. It’s amazing how much she has changed since I met her. She used to have such a chip on her shoulder, but then she was a single mom to Andy, trying to run a massive charity ranch. Now she’s got Scotty and his daughter, Lily, plus their own two-year-old terror named Lisette. They make the sweetest family you could ever imagine.
“I need you to pull out the invoice for the Maple Fest popcorn machine!”
I shout back, “Is it in an envelope marked‘Various Machines’or‘Paperwork I Think I Might Need’?”
There’s a pause as Lisette starts wailing from the kitchen about crackers.
Then: “I’ll get back to you!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The woman is a walking hug wrapped in havoc. The kids love her. So do the donors. And if it weren’t for me, she’d be in federal prison for tax confusion.
I’m elbow-deep in reconciling a mystery charge called “Goat Yoga 4Ever” when my thoughts start to drift.
To him.
To the ridiculous French guy with the voice like butter and the timing of a rogue firework.
And yet…
Something about the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle he wanted to put together, unsettled me more than I care to admit.
This flutter in my tummy reminds me of a time when I was doe-eyed and naïve. Like when I was with Paul?—
No. Not going there.
This isn’t about the past. This is about the present. And the present involves keeping this town from being bulldozed by a billionaire who likely thinks “redevelopment” is a synonym for erasure.
I glance at the clock. It’s hours later and I still haven’t eaten. I close the laptop, gather the folder, and make a mental note to email the mayor as soon as I do my initial scan of the land ownership documents I picked up from the Town Hall yesterday.
Wait, not the mayor. Ashlyn. And apparently it isn’t even the heir himself who has made all these threats, but some chump working for him named Jeremy Hunt. The whole situation is odd, but isn’t that why I wanted to stay in a smalltown, specifically because it isn’t dictated by the rules of corporate big cities?
But being a small town won’t save Maple Falls from Victor MacDonald’s heir if I can’t figure something out, and that’s assuming the Frenchman won’t wander back into Town Hall looking for a second act.
