Page 23 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“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 Idoknow 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 truefaux 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,notrun,” 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."
