Page 17 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“I’ll put that in my memoir,” I mutter.
Lucian squats down a few feet away. “So,” he says, “Weston said you bought a house?”
“Oui.” I lean back on my heels. “Technically, I bought a pile of wood wearing a roof. It’s historic. By which I mean no one’s done a thing with it since the Civil War.”
Weston cuts in. “You’ve seen the place, Lucian. The two-story out on the edge of town, heading toward Happy Horizons Ranch.”
Lucian snaps his head back to me, eyes wide. “Youboughtthat?”
“I like a challenge.”
Lucian raises an eyebrow. “You like electrical fires?”
I shrug. “Keeps you warm in Pacific Northwestern winter.”
“And you’re doing the work yourself?” he asks, brushing a fleck of paint off a bench like it offended him.
I hesitate. “Yes? Mostly. Ish. That was the dream. Use my own hands to build something that will last a lifetime. If I hire out the work, then my blood and sweat will be for nothing.”
Lucian grins. “Want a second pair of eyes on it? I could swing by. Point out what’s going to fall on your head first.”
I try to play it cool, even as a wave of overwhelming relief washes over me like a spiritual pressure wash.
“That would be appreciated,” I say. “Merci,mon ami.”
Weston snorts. “Wow. He only breaks outmon amiwhen he’s seconds away from crying.”
“I amnotcrying,” I say, vigorously scrubbing a tile to prove it. “This is how French men express gratitude. And deeply repressed emotion.” I look up and wink.
Lucian stands up. “Text me the address. I’ll bring gloves. And don’t forget the back corner of the bath.” He points and cringes.
I head that way to scrub. “Remember me next time your muscles are getting a nice, cool bath, and all the sweat labor it took.”
He chuckles. “You bet, Frenchie.”
CHAPTER 7
MARCY
Iclutch my coffee mug like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth. I’ve spent the entire day combing through old documents, physical and electronic, looking for some kind of solution for Maple Falls.
My back has fused with the chair. I’ve started talking to my highlighters like they’re coworkers and I’m nearly cross-eyed, so a moment gazing at the horizon does me good.
I didn’t expect to love this place when I first arrived. Now I can’t imagine leaving.
Scotty’s in the barn. I hear him hammering, then there’s some kind of metal clang followed by a long goat bleat. Angel and the kids emerge from the ranch house that is across a field from my cabin. When I first moved in, I paid a minimal rent in exchange for occasional babysitting of her and Scotty’s kids. Back then, Lisette was just a dream. Andy and Lily were twelve years old, and already were far more responsible, worldly, and polite than most kids their age. They watch over their little sister like guardians.
They’ve matured into great teenagers, the kinds of kids you’re thankful will one day take over the world. Though they do love the occasional practical joke.
This is exactly why I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours buried in Washington state property laws. If I can prove that MacDonald’s legal claim violates the town’s comprehensive planning process, or if I can document even one undisclosed transfer in the last twenty years that conflicts with Maple Falls’ zoning protections, I might be able to freeze his filings. Even temporarily.
That might be enough for the mayor to get things back on track, especially with Ashlyn at his side. She seems like a woman who gets things done. I like her already.
I drain my mug and wince. Cold. Time to reheat, re-caffeinate, and settle back in at my desk to continue.
Just as I hit enter on a search forRCW 84.40.040 unexplained land acquisition loopholes, the screen gives me the buffering swirl of death.
Then everything but my laptop screen goes dark.
