Page 25 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
“You have my number?” She looks at me like I might have been internet stalking, so I quickly pull out her business card from my wallet and hold it in the air.
"Bonne soirée, mademoiselle," I say, but it hardly feels like enough.
She gives a tiny nod, clutching her binder.
I rev the engine and take off down the street. At the corner, something makes me glance back.
There she is, standing on the sidewalk, binder in hand, watching me go.
I smile so hard my cheeks hurt all the way to my condo.
CHAPTER 9
MARCY
“Marcy?”
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 ama 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 thede factomayor’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.
