Page 26 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
In my dream.
Just—boom. Right there. Sparkling eyes, wind-tousled hair, that maddening grin like he just got away with something inappropriate but charming.
I groan and roll onto my back.
Absolutely not.
This is a boundary violation. My brain is supposed to be reserved for spreadsheets and zoning laws and rethinking my stance on sugar intake,notthe memory of a French hockey player whose chest was unfairly symmetrical.
Ugh.
I sit up and shove my blanket off, immediately regretting it. The air in the cabin is brisk, the kind of cold that makes your ankles feel personally betrayed. My feet hit the cold floorboards, which is when I realize I forgot to bring my slippers in last night. Again.
That’s because as soon as I was home, I was back at my laptop, going over everything I could find and ultimately, I foundnothing.
I’m taking one last look over my notes when my phone buzzes on the counter beside the toaster oven.
“Marcy Fontaine Accounting,” I answer, already reaching for a pen with my free hand.
“It’s worse than we thought, Marcy,” comes Ashlyn’s voice, fast and unfiltered.
My stomach drops. “Ms. Thompkins? What do you mean? How bad is it?”
“Victor MacDonald owned the land the arena is on,” she says. “And a big chunk of Main Street.”
I stagger back a step. “No!”
“I’m guessing his heir knows this and he’s going to play hardball. I mean, why wouldn’t he?”
If we know this, then that sleazeball representative for the heir—Jeremy Hunt, even the name oozes big-city detachment—must know it too. I groan loud enough to startle the chickens outside. “Do you have an emergency meeting called yet?”
“I asked my dad’s assistant to do it,” she says, “but the guy hates me.”
I slap the table. “That Phillip Bane is the bane of my existence!”
There’s silence where I imagine her nodding solemnly. “Exactly. I’m not overly optimistic he’s going to make it happen.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, already mentally opening my spreadsheet of city council contacts. “I have all the names and numbers of the council members. I’ll set the meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”
Ashlyn exhales, and I can hear the tension unraveling slightly over the line. “I’m sure everyone will just love being called in on a Sunday.”
“At least most of them will probably be able to make it,” I reply. “Are you sure you don’t want to call your father?”
There’s a pause on the line.
“No,” she says. “But I’d like to see if I can handle this before I do.”
“Okay, I’ll make the meeting for two o’clock. That waystomachs will be full, and hopefully brains will be ready to come up with some great ideas.”
“Where does the city council meet?”
“There’s a room on the first floor of City Hall.” I hang up, set the phone down beside the goat-shaped creamer someone donated last year, and start working on the figures we’ll have to share at the meeting. If we’re going to fight for this town, I want every decimal point on our side.
My phone buzzes, and I quickly check to see if Ashlyn has more bad news. But it’s not her.
Unknown Number: Good morning, Mademoiselle Fontaine. You know your last name is French? I hope this is a sign you like crepes at the bistro, because I walked past it the other day and they smelled irresistible.
Is that a palpitation? I’ve never had a palpitation before, so I’m not sure that’s what’s happening, but it most definitely could be a palpitation.
